






























V 












GEORG EBERS 
XIII 

A WORD, 

ONLY A WORD 

THE BURGOMASTER'S 
WIFE 










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THE HISTORICAL ROMANCES OF 

GEORG EBERS 

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A Word, 
Only a Word 


Translated from the German by 
Mary ). Safford 


POPULAR UNIFORM EDITION 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
New York and London 
1915 




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DEDICATION 


TO MY DEAR OLD FRIEND 
DR. CARL von BURCKHARDT 

You know the weighty cause that has prevented 
our visit to Wildbad, therefore receive in my stead 
the fruit of this summer’s labor. It must tell you, 
that the friendship of three and twenty years, which 
unites me and mine to you and yours, still thrives fresh 
and changeless as the noble pines in the glorious Black 
Forest, and that I shall never forget the gratitude I owe 
the gracious fountain, whose bounties you so wisely dis- 
pense, and render so useful to your proteges. 

How gladly I recall your charming forest valley, the 
abode of cool shadow, the cradle of health, the horn of 
plenty, that bestows refreshment and strength upon so 
many. 

You know the quiet little nook beneath the pines 
by the rushing Enz, where a large portion of my crea- 
tions have originated ; you are the master of the house, 
where we have so often found in the society of dis- 
tinguished men and noble women, inspiration, pleasure, 
and lively recreation. 

In future I expect to find summer rest beneath my 
own trees beside a blue lake, but the beloved valley of 
the Enz will not be forgotten in Tutzing, and as a pledge 
of changeless loyalty I offer you, your household, and 
dear Wildbad in general, this unpretending new work. 

GEORG EBERS. 

Leipzig, Nov. ioth, 1882, 


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A WORD, ONLY A WORD. 


CHAPTER I. 


“ A word, only a word !” cried a fresh, boyish voice, 
then two hands were loudly clapped and a gay laugh 
echoed through the forest. Hitherto silence had reigned 
under the boughs of the pines and tops of the beeches, 
but now a wood-pigeon joined in the lad’s laugh, and a jay, 
startled by the clapping of hands, spread its brown wings, 
delicately flecked with blue, and soared from one pine 
to another. 

Spring had entered the Black Forest a few weeks 
before. May was just over, yet the weather was as 
sultry as in midsummer and clouds were gathering in 
denser and denser masses. The sun was still some dis- 
tance above the horizon, but the valley was so narrow 
that the day star had disappeared, before making its 
majestic entry into the portals of night. 

When it set in a clear sky, it only gilded the border 
of pine trees on the crest of the lofty western heights ; 
to-day it was invisible, and the occasional, quickly in- 
terrupted twittering of the birds seemed more in har- 
mony with the threatening clouds and sultry atmosphere 
than the lad’s gay laughter. 

Every living creature seemed to be holding its 


A WORD, 


' 2 

breath in anxious suspense, but Ulrich once more 
laughed joyously, then bracing his bare knee against a 
bundle of faggots, cried : 

“ Give me that stick, Ruth, that I may tie it up. 
How dry the stuff is, and how it snaps ! A word ! To sit 
over books all day long for one stupid word — that’s 
just nonsense !” 

“ But all words are not alike,” replied the girl. 

“ Piff is paff, and paff is puff!” laughed Ulrich. 
“ When I snap the twigs, you always hear them say 
‘knack,’ knack,’ and ‘knack’ is a word too. The jug- 
gler Caspar’s magpie, can say twenty.” 

“ But father said so,” replied Ruth, arranging the 
dry sticks. “ He toils hard, but not for gold and gain, to 
find the right words. You are always wanting to know 
what he is looking for in his big books, so 1 plucked up 
courage to ask him, and now I know. I suppose he 
saw I was astonished, for he smiled just as he does 
when you have asked some foolish question at lessons, 
and added that a word was no trifling thing and should 
not be despised, for God had made the world out 
of one single word.” 

Ulrich shook his head, and after pondering a few 
minutes, replied. 

“ Do you believe that ?” 

“ Father said so,” was the little girl’s only answer. 

Her words expressed the firm, immovable security 
of childish confidence, and the same feeling sparkled in 
her eyes. She was probably about nine years old, and 
in every respect a perfect contrast to her companion, 
her senior by several summers, for the latter was strongly 
built, and from beneath his beautiful fair locks a pair of 
big blue eyes flashed defiance at the world, while Ruth 


ONLY A WORD. 


3 


was a delicate little creature, with slender limbs, pale 
cheeks, and coal-black hair. 

The little girl wore a fashionably-made, though 
shabby dress, shoes and stockings — the boy was bare- 
foot, and his grey doublet looked scarcely less worn than 
the short leather breeches, which hardly reached hisknees; 
yet he must have had some regard for his outer man, for 
a red knot of real silk was fastened on his shoulder. He 
could scarcely be the child of a peasant or woodland 
laborer — the brow was too high, the nose and red lips 
were too delicately moulded, the bearing was too proud 
and free. 

Ruth’s last words had given him food for thought, 
but he left them unanswered until the last bundle of 
sticks was tied up. Then he said hesitatingly : 

“My mother — you know I dare not speak of 

her before father, he goes into such a rage ; my mother 
is said to be very wicked — but she never was so to me, and 
I long for her day after day, very, very much, as I long 
for nothing else. When I was so high, my mother told 
me a great many things, such queer things ! About a 
man, who wanted treasures, and before whom moun- 
tains opened at a word he knew. Of course it’s for 
such a word your father is seeking.” 

“ I don’t know,” replied the little girl. “ But the 
word out of which God made the whole earth and sky 
and all the stars must have been a very great one.” 

Ulrich nodded, then raising his eyes boldly, ex- 
claimed : 

“ Ah, if he should find it, and would not keep it to 
himself, but let you tell me ! I should know what I 
wanted.” 

Ruth looked at him enquiringly, but he cried 


4 


A WORD, 


laughingly : “ I shan’t tell. But what would you 

ask ?” 

“ I ? I should ask to have my mother able to speak 
again like other people. But you would wish . . . 

“You can’t know what I would wish.” 

“Yes, yes. You would bring your mother back 
home again.” 

“ No, I wasn’t thinking of that,” replied Ulrich, 
flushing scarlet and fixing his eyes on the ground. 

“ What, then ? Tell me; I won’t repeat it.” 

“ I should like to be one of the count’s squires, and 
always ride with him when he goes hunting.” 

“ Oh !” cried Ruth. “ That would be the very 
thing, if I were a boy like you. A squire ! But if the 
word can do everything, it will make you lord of the 
castle and a powerful count. You can have real velvet 
clothes, with gay slashes, and a silk bed.” 

“ And I’ll ride the black stallion, and the forest, with 
all its stags and deer, will belong to me ; as to the people 
down in the village, I’ll show them !” 

Raising his clenched fist and his eyes in menace as 
he uttered the words, he saw that heavy rain -drops 
were beginning to fall, and a thunder-shower was rising. 

Hastily and skilfully loading himself with several 
bundles of faggots, he laid some on the little girl’s 
shoulders, and went down with her towards the valley, 
paying no heed to the pouring rain, thunder or light- 
ning; but Ruth trembled in every limb. 

At the edge of the narrow pass leading to the city 
they stood still. The moisture was trickling down its 
steep sides and had gathered into a reddish torrent on 
the rocky bottom. 

“ Come !” cried Ulrich, stepping on to the edge 


ONLY A WORD 


5 


of the ravine, where stones and sand, loosened by the 
wet, were now rattling down. 

“ I’m afraid,” answered the little girl trembling. 
“There’s another flash of lightning! Oh! dear, oh, 
dear! how it blazes! — oh! oh! that clap of thun* 
der !” 

She stooped as if the lightning had struck her, 
covered her face with her little hands, and fell on her 
knees, the bundle of faggots slipping to the ground. 
Filled with terror, she murmured as if she could com- 
mand the mighty word : “ Oh, Word, Word, get me 
home !” 

Ulrich stamped impatiently, glanced at her with 
mingled anger and contempt, and muttering reproaches, 
threw her bundle and his own into the ravine, then 
roughly seized her hand and dragged her to the edge 
of the cliff. 

Half-walking, half-slipping, with many an unkind 
word, though he was always careful to support her, the 
boy scrambled down the steep slope with his companion, 
and when they were at last standing in the water at the 
bottom of the gully, picked up the dripping fagots and 
walked silently on, carrying her burden as well as his 
own. 

After a short walk through the running water and 
mass of earth and stones, slowly sliding towards the 
valley, several shingled roofs appeared, and the little 
girl uttered a sigh of relief; for in the row of shabby 
houses, each standing by itself, that extended from the 
forest to the level end of the ravine, was her own home 
and the forge belonging to her companion’s father. 

It was still raining, but the thunder-storm had 
passed as quickly as it rose, and twilight was already 


6 


A WORD, 


gathering over the mist- veiled houses and spires of 
the little city, from which the street ran to the ravine. 

The stillness of the evening was only interrupted by 
a few scattered notes of bells, the finale of the mighty 
peal by which the warder had just been trying to disperse 
the storm. 

The safety of the town in the narrow forest- valley 
was well secured, a wall and ditch enclosed it ; only the 
houses on the edge of the ravine were unprotected. 
True, the mouth of the pass was covered by the field pie- 
ces on the city wall, and the strong tower beside the gate, 
but it was not incumbent on the citizens to provide for 
the safety of the row of houses up there. It was called 
the Richtberg and nobody lived there except the rabble, 
executioners, and poor folk who were not granted the 
rights of citizenship. Adam, the smith, had forfeited his, 
and Ruth’s father, Doctor Costa, was a Jew, who ought 
to be thankful that he was tolerated in the old forester’s 
house. 

The street was perfectly still. A few children were 
jumping over the mud-puddles, and an old washerwoman 
was putting a wooden vessel under the gutter, to col- 
lect the rain-water. 

Ruth breathed more freely when once again in the 
street and among human beings, and soon, clinging to 
the hand of her father, who had come to meet her, she 
entered the house with him and Ulrich. 


ONLY A WORD. 


7 


CHAPTER II. 

While the boy flung the damp bundles of brush- 
wood on the floor beside the hearth in the doctor’s 
kitchen, a servant from the monastery was leading 
three horses under the rude shed in front of the smith 
Adam’s work-shop The stately grey-haired monk, who 
had ridden the strong cream-colored steed, was already 
standing beside the embers of the fire, pressing his 
hands upon the warm chimney. 

The forge stood open, but spite of knocking and 
shouting, neither the master of the place, nor any other 
living soul appeared. Adam had gone out, but could 
not be far away, for the door leading from the shop into 
the sitting-room, was also unlocked. 

The time was growing long to Father Benedict, so 
for occupation he tried to lift the heavy hammer. It 
was a difficult task, though he was no weakling, yet it 
was not hard for Adam’s arm to swing and guide the 
burden. If only the man had understood how to 
govern his life as well as he managed his ponderous 
tool ! 

He did not belong to Richtberg. What would his 
father have said, had he lived to see his son dwell 
here ? 

The monk had known the old smith well, and he 
also knew many things about the son and his destiny, 
yet no more than rumor entrusts to one person concern- 
ing another’s life. Even this was enough to explain 
why Adam had become so reserved, misanthropic and 


8 


A WORD, 


silent a man, though even in his youth he certainly had 
not been what is termed a gay fellow. 

The forge where he grew up, was still standing in the 
market-place of the little city below ; it had belonged to 
his grandfather and great-grandfather. There had never 
been any lack of custom, to the annoyance of the wise 
magistrates, whose discussions were disturbed by the 
hammering that rang across the ill-paved square to the 
windows of the council-chamber; but, on the other 
hand, the idle hours of the watchmen under the arches 
of the ground-floor of the town-hall were sweetened by 
the bustle before the smithy. 

How Adam had come from the market-place to the 
Richtberg, is a story speedily told. 

He was the only child of his dead parents, and early 
learned his father’s trade. When his mother died, the 
old man gave his son and partner his blessing, and some 
florins to pay his expenses, and sent him away. He 
went directly to Nuremberg, which the old man praised 
as the high-school of the smith’s art, and there remained 
twelve years. When, at the end of that time, news came 
to Adam that his father was dead, and he had inherited 
the forge on the market-place, he wondered to find that 
he was thirty years old, and had gone no farther than 
Nuremberg. True, everything that the rest of the world 
could do in the art of forging might be learned there. 

He was a large, heavy man, and from childhood 
had moved slowly and reluctantly from the place where 
he chanced to be. 

If work was pressing, he could not be induced to 
leave the. anvil, even when evening had closed in ; if it 
was pleasant to sit over the beer, he remained till after 
the last man had gone. While working, he was as 


ONLY A WORD. 


9 


mute as the dead to everything that was passing around 
him ; in the tavern he rarely spoke, and then said only 
a few words, yet the young artists, sculptors, workers in 
gold and students liked to see the stout drinker and 
good listener at the table, and the members of his guild 
only marvelled how the sensible fellow, who joined in 
no foolish pranks, and worked in such good earnest, 
held aloof from them to keep company with these hair- 
brained folk, and remained a Papist. 

He might have taken possession of the shop on the 
market-place directly after his father’s death, but could 
not arrange his departure so quickly, and it was fully 
eight months before he left Nuremberg. 

On the high-road before Schwabach a wagon, occu- 
pied by some strolling performers, overtook the traveller. 
They belonged to the better class, for they appeared 
before counts and princes, and were seven in number. 
The father and four sons played the violin, viola and 
rebec, and the two daughters sang to the lute 
and harp. The old man invited Adam to take the 
eighth place in the vehicle, so he counted his pennies, 
and room was made for him opposite Flora, called by 
her family Florette. The musicians were going to the 
fair at Nordlingen, and the smith enjoyed himself so 
well with them, that he remained several days after 
reaching the goal of the journey. When he at last 
went away Florette wept, but he walked straight on 
until noon, without looking back. Then he lay down 
under a blossoming apple-tree, to rest and eat some 
lunch, but the lunch did not taste well; and when he 
shut his eyes he could not sleep, for he thought con- 
stantly of Florette. Of course ! He had parted from 
her far too soon, and an eager longing seized upon him 


IO 


A WORD, 


for the young girl, with her red lips and luxuriant hair. 
This hair was a perfect golden-yellow ; he knew it well, 
for she had often combed and braided it in the tavern- 
room beside the straw where they all slept. 

He yearned to hear her laugh too, and would have 
liked to see her weep again. 

Then he remembered the desolate smithy in the 
narrow market-place and the dreary home, recollected 
that he was thirty years old, and still had no wife. 

A little wife of his own ! A wife like Florette ! 
Seventeen years old, a complexion like milk and blood, 
a creature full of gayety and joyous life ! True, he was 
no light-hearted lad, but, lying under the apple-tree in 
the month of May, he saw himself in imagination living 
happily and merrily in the smithy by the market-place, 
with the fair-haired girl who had already shed tears for 
him. At last he started up, and because he had deter- 
mined to go still farther on this day, did so, though for 
no other reason than to carry out the plan formed the 
day before. The next morning, before sunrise, he was 
again marching along the highway, this time not for- 
ward towards the Black Forest, but back to Nord- 
lingen. 

That very evening Florette became his betrothed 
bride, and the following Tuesday his wife. 

The wedding was celebrated in the midst of the 
turmoil of the fair. Strolling players, jugglers and buf- 
foons were the witnesses, and there was no lack of 
music and tinsel. 

A quieter ceremony would have been more agree- 
able to the plain citizen and sensible blacksmith, but 
this purgatory had to be passed to reach Paradise. 

On Wednesday he w r ent off in a fair wagon with his 


ONLY A WORD. 


II 


young wife, and in Stuttgart bought with a portion of 
his savings many articles of household furniture, less to 
stop the gossips’ tongues, of which he took no heed, 
than to do her honor in his own eyes. These things, 
piled high in a wagon of his own, he had sent into 
his native town as Florette’s dowry, for her whole 
outfit consisted of one pink and one grass-green gown, 
a lute and a little white dog. 

A delightful life now began in the smithy for Adam. 
The gossips avoided his wife, but they stared at her in 
church, and among them she seemed to him, not un- 
justly, like a rose amid vegetables. The marriage he 
had made was an abomination to respectable citizens, 
but Adam did not heed them, and Flora appeared 
to feel equally happy with him. When, before the close 
of the first twelvemonth after their wedding, Ulrich was 
bom, the smith reached the summit of happiness and re- 
mained there for a whole year. 

When, during that tim£, he stood in the bow- window 
amid the fresh balsam, auriculas and yellow wallflowers 
holding his boy on his shoulder, while his wife leaned on 
lis arm, and the pungent odor of scorched hoofs reached 
his nostrils, and he saw his journeyman and appren- 
tice shoeing a horse below, he often thought how pleas- 
ant it had been pursuing the finer branches of his craft 
in Nuremberg, and that he should like to forge a flower 
again ; but the blacksmith’s trade was not to be despised 
either, and surely life with one’s wife and child was best. 

In the evening he drank his beer at the Lamb, and 
once, when the surgeon Siedler called life a miserable 
vale of tears, he laughed in his face and answered : “To 
him who knows how to take it right, it is a delightful 
garden.” 


2 


i2 


A WORD, 


Florette was kind to her husband, and devoted 
herself to her child, so long as he was an infant, with the 
most self-sacrificing love. Adam often spoke of a little 
daughter, who must look exactly like its mother ; but it 
did not come. 

When little Ulrich at last began to run about in the 
street, the mother’s nomadic blood stirred, and she was 
constantly dinning it into her husband’s ears that he 
ought to leave this miserable place and go to Augsburg 
or Cologne, where it would be pleasant ; but he remained 
firm, and though her power over him was great, she could 
not move his resolute will. 

Often she would not cease her entreaties and repre- 
sentations, and when she even complained that she was 
dying of solitude and weariness, his veins swelled with 
wrath, and then she was frightened, fled to her room 
and wept. If she happened to have a bold day, she 
threatened to go away and seek her own relatives. 
This displeased him, and he made her feel it bitterly, 
for he was steadfast in everything, even anger, and 
when he bore ill-will it was not for hours, but months, 
nor at such times could he be conciliated by coaxing or 
tears. 

By degrees Florette learned to meet his discontent 
with a shrug of her shoulders, and to arrange her life in 
her own way. Ulrich was her comfort, pride and play- 
thing, but sporting with him did not satisfy her. 

While Adam was standing behind the anvil, she sat 
among the flowers in the bow-window, and the watch- 
men now looked higher up than the forge, the worthy 
magistrates no longer cast unfriendly glances at the 
smith’s house, for Florette grew more and more beauti- 
ful in the quiet life she now enjoyed, and many a neigh- 


A WORD. 


T 3 

boring noble brought his horse to Adam to be shod, 
merely to look into the eyes of the artisan’s beautiful 
wife. 

Count von Frohlingen came most frequently of all, 
and Florette soon learned to distinguish the hoof-beats 
of his horse from those of the other steeds, and when he 
entered the shop, willingly found some pretext for 
going there too. In the afternoons she often went with 
her child outside the gate, and then always chose the 
road leading to the count’s castle. There was no lack 
of careful friends, who warned Adam, but he answered 
them angrily, so they learned to be silent. 

Florette had now grown gay again, and sometimes 
sang like a joyous bird. 

Seven years elapsed, and during the summer of the 
eighth a scattered troop of soldiers came to the city and 
obtained admission. They were quartered under the 
arches of the town-hall, but many also lay in the 
smithy, for their helmets, breast-plates and other pieces of 
armor required plenty of mending. The ensign, a 
handsome, proud young fellow, with a dainty mous- 
tache, was Adam’s most constant customer, and played 
very kindly with Ulrich, when Florette appeared with 
him. At last the young soldier departed, and the very 
same day Adam was summoned to the monastery, to 
mend something in the grating before the treasury. 

When he returned, Florette had vanished ; “ run 
after the ensign,” people said, and they were right. 

Adam did not attempt to wrest her from the seducer; 
but a great love cannot be torn from the heart like a 
staff that is thrust into the ground; it is intertwined 
with a thousand fibres, and to destroy it utterly is to 
destroy the heart in which it has taken root, and with it 
2 


V 


H 


A WORD, 


life itself. When he secretly cursed her and called her 
a viper, he doubtless remembered how innocent, dear and 
joyous she had been, and then the roots of the destroyed 
affection put forth new shoots, and he saw before his 
mental vision ensnaring images, of which he felt 
ashamed as soon as they had vanished. 

Lightning and hail had entered the “ delightful 
garden”. of Adam’s life also, and he had been thrust 
forth from the little circle of the happy into the great 
army of the wretched. 

Purifying powers dwell in undeserved suffering, but 
no one is made better by unmerited disgrace, least of 
all a man like Adam. He had done what seemed to 
him his duty, without looking to the right or the left, but 
now the stainless man felt himself dishonored, and with 
morbid sensitiveness referred everything he saw and 
heard to his own disgrace, while the inhabitants of the 
little town made him feel that he had been ill-advised, 
when he ventured to make a fiddler’s daughter a 
citizen. 

When he went out, it seemed to him — and 
usually unjustly — as if people were nudging each other; 
hands, pointing out-stretched fingers at him, appeared to 
grow from every eye. At home he found nothing but 
desolation, vacuity, sorrow, and a child, who constantly 
tore open the burning, gnawing wounds in his heart. 
Ulrich must forget “ the viper,” and he sternly forbade 
him to speak of his mother ; but not a day passed on 
which he would not fain have done so himself. 

The smith did not stay long in the house on the 
market-place. He wished to go to Freiburg or Ulm, 
any place where he had not been with her. A pur- 
chaser for the dwelling, with its lucrative business, was 


ONLY A WORD. 


T 5 


speedily found, the furniture was packed, and the new 
owner was to move in on Wednesday, when on Mon- 
day Bolz, the jockey, came to Adam’s workshop from 
Richtberg. The man had been a good customer for 
years, and bought hundreds of shoes, which he put on 
the horses at his own forge, for he knew something 
about the trade. He came to say farewell ; he had his 
own nest to feather, and could do a more profitable 
business in the lowlands than up here in the forest. 
Finally he offered Adam his property at a very low 
price. 

The smith had smiled at the jockey’s proposal, still 
he went to the Richtberg the very next day to see the 
place. There stood the executioner’s house, from which 
the whole street was probably named. One wretched 
hovel succeeded another. Yonder before a door, Wil- 
helm the idiot, on whom the city boys played their 
pranks, smiled into vacancy just as foolishly as he had 
done twenty years ago, here lodged Kathrin, with the 
big goitre, who swept the gutters; in the three grey 
huts, from which hung numerous articles of ragged 
clothing, lived two families of charcoal-burners, and 
Caspar, the juggler, a strange man, whom as a boy he 
had seen in the pillory, with his deformed daughters, 
who in winter washed laces and in summer went with 
him to the fairs. 

In the hovels, before which numerous children were 
playing, lived honest, but poor foresters. It was the 
home of want and misery. Only the jockey’s house 
and one other would have been allowed to exist in 
the city. The latter was occupied by the Jew, Costa, 
who ten years before had come from a distant country 
to the city with his aged father and a dumb wife, and 


6 


A WORD. 


remained there, for a little daughter was born and the 
old man was afterwards seized with a fatal illness. But 
the inhabitants would tolerate no Jews among them, so 
the stranger moved into the forester’s house on the 
Richtberg which had stood empty because a better one 
had been built deeper in the woods. The city treasury 
could use the rent and tax exacted from Jews and 
demanded of the stranger. The Jew consented to 
the magistrate’s requirement, but as it soon became 
known that he pored over huge volumes all day long 
and pursued no business, yet paid for everything in 
good money, he was believed to be an alchemist and 
sorcerer. 

All who lived here were miserable or despised, and 
when Adam had left the Richtberg he told himself that he 
no longer belonged among the proud and unblemished 
and since he felt dishonored and took disgrace in the 
same dogged earnest, that he did everything else, he 
believed the people in the Richtberg were just the right 
neighbors for him. All knew what it is to be wretched, 
and many had still heavier disgrace to bear. And then ! 
If want drove his miserable wife back to him, this was 
the right place for her and those of her stamp. 

So he bought the jockey’s house and well-supplied 
forge. There would be customers enough for all he 
could do there in obscurity. 

He had no cause to repent his bargain. 

The old nurse remained with him and took care of 
Ulrich, who throve admirably. His own heart too 
grew lighter while engaged in designing or executing 
many an artistic piece of work. He sometimes went to 
the city to buy iron or coals, but usually avoided any 
intercourse with the citizens, who shrugged their shoul* 


ONLY A WORD. 


*7 


ders or pointed to their foreheads, when they spoke 
of him. 

About a year after his removal he had occasion to 
speak to the file-cutter, and sought him at the Lamb, 
where a number of Count Frohlinger’s retainers were 
sitting. Adam took no notice of them, but they began 
to jeer and mock at him. For a time he succeeded in 
controlling himself, but when red-haired Valentine went 
too far, a sudden fit of rage overpowered him and he 
felled him to the floor. The others now attacked him 
and dragged him to their master’s castle, where he lay 
imprisoned for six months. At last he was brought 
before the count, who restored him to liberty “ for the 
sake of Florette’s beautiful eyes.” 

Years had passed since then, during which Adam 
had lived a quiet, industrious life in the Richtberg with 
his son. He associated with no one, except Doctor 
Costa, in whom he found the first and only real friend 
fate had ever bestowed upon him. 


CHAPTER III. 

Father Benedict had last seen the smith soon after 
his return from imprisonment, in the confessional of the 
monastery. As the monk in his youth had served in a 
troop of the imperial cavalry, he now, spite of his eccle- 
siastical dignity, managed the stables of the wealthy 
monastery, and had formerly come to the smithy in the 
market-place with many a horse, but since the monks 
had become involved in a quarrel with the city, Bene- 
dict ordered the animals to be shod elsewhere, 


i8 


A WORD, 


A difficult case reminded him of the skilful, half-for- 
gotten artisan ; and when the latter came out of the shed 
with a sack of coal, Benedict greeted him with sincere 
warmth. Adam, too, showed that he was glad to see 
the unexpected visitor, and placed his skill at the dis- 
posal of the monastery. 

“ It has grown late, Adam,” said the monk, loosen- 
ing the belt he was accustomed to wear when riding, 
which had become damp. “ The storm overtook 
us on the way. The rolling and flashing overhead 
made the sorrel horse almost tear Gotz’s hands off the 
wrists. Three steps sideways and one forward — so it 
has grown late, and you can’t shoe the rascal in the 
dark.” 

“ Do you mean the sorrel horse ?” asked Adam, in a 
deep, musical voice, thrusting a blazing pine torch into 
the iron ring on the forge. 

“Yes, Master Adam. He won’t bear shoeing, yet 
he’s very valuable. We have nothing to equal him. 
None of us can control him, but you formerly — 
zounds! .... you haven’t grown younger in the last 
few years either, Adam! Put on your cap; you’ve lost 
your hair. Your forehead reaches down to your neck, 
but your vigor has remained. Do you remember how 
you cleft the anvil at Rodebach ? ” 

“ Let that pass,” replied Adam— not angrily, but 
firmly. “ I’ll shoe the horse early to-morrow ; it’s too 
late to-day.” 

“ I thought so ! ” cried the other, clasping his hands 
excitedly. “You know how we stand towards the citi- 
zens on account of the tolls on the bridges. I’d rather 
lie on thorns than enter the miserable hole. The stable 
down below is large enough ! Haven’t you a heap of 


ONLY A WORD. 


T 9 


straw for a poor brother in Christ ? I need nothing 
more; I’ve brought food with me.” 

The smith lowered his eyes in embarrassment. He 
was not hospitable. No stranger had rested under his 
roof, and everything that disturbed his seclusion was 
repugnant to him. Yet he could not refuse; so he an- 
swered coldly : “ I live alone here with my boy, but if 
you wish, room can be made.” 

The monk accepted as eagerly, as if he had been 
cordially invited ; and after the horses and groom were 
supplied with shelter, followed his host into the sitting- 
room next the shop, and placed his saddle-bags on the 
table. 

“ This is all right,” he said, laughing, as he pro- 
duced a roast fowl and some white bread. “ But how 
about the wine ? I need something warm inside after 
my wet ride. Haven’t you a drop in the cellar ? ” 

“No, Father!” replied the smith. But directly 
after a second thought occurred to him, and he added : 
“ Yes, I can serve you.” 

So saying, he opened the cupboard, and when, a 
short time after, the monk emptied the first goblet, he 
uttered a long drawn “ Ah ! ” following the course of 
the fiery potion with his hand, till it rested content near 
his stomach. His lips quivered a little in the enjoy- 
ment of the flavor ; then he looked benignantly with 
his unusually round eyes at Adam, saying cunningly : 

“If such grapes grow on your pine-trees, I wish the 
good Lord had given Father Noah a pine-tree instead 
of a vine. By the saints ! The archbishop has no 
better wine in his cellar ! Give me one little sip more, 
and tell me from whom you received the noble gift ? ” 

“ Costa gave me the wine.” 


20 


A WORD, 


“ The sorcerer — the Jew ? ” asked the monk, push- 
ing the goblet away. “ But, of course,” he continued, 
in a half-earnest, half-jesting tone, “ when one con- 
siders — the wine at the first holy communion, and at the 
marriage of Cana, and the juice of the grapes King David 
enjoyed, once lay in Jewish cellars ! ” 

Benedict had doubtless expected a smile or ap- 
proving word from his host, but the smith’s bearded 
face remained motionless, as if he were dead. 

The monk looked less cheerful, as he began again : 

“ You ought not to grudge yourself a goblet either. 
Wine moderately enjoyed makes the heart glad; and 
you don’t look like a contented man. Everything in 
life has not gone according to your wishes, but each 
has his own cross to bear; and as for you, your name 
is Adam, and your trials also come from Eve ! ” 

At these words the smith moved his hand from his 
beard, and began to push the round leather cap to and 
fro on his bald head. A harsh answer was already on 
his lips, when he saw Ulrich, who had paused on the 
threshold in bewilderment. The boy had never beheld 
any guest at his father’s table except the doctor, but 
hastily collecting his thoughts he kissed the monk’s 
hand. The priest took the handsome lad by the chin, 
bent his head back, looked Adam also in the face, and 
exclaimed : 

“ His mouth, nose and eyes he has inherited from 
your wife, but the shape of the brow and head is exactly 
like yours.” 

A faint flush suffused Adam’s cheeks, and turning 
quickly to the boy as if he had heard enough, he 
cried : 

“ You are late. Where have you been so long ? ” 


ONLY A WORD. 


2t 

“ In the forest with Ruth. We were gathering fag- 
gots for Dr. Costa.” 

“ Until now ? ” 

“ Rahel had baked some dumplings, so the doctor 
told me to stay.” 

“ Then go to bed now. But first take some food to 
the groom in the stable, and put fresh linen on my bed. 
Be in the workshop early to-morrow morning, there is a 
horse to be shod.” 

The boy looked up thoughtfully and replied : “ Yes, 
but the doctor has changed the hours ; to-morrow the 
lesson will begin just after sunrise, father.” 

“Very well, we’ll do without you. Good-night 
then.” 

The monk followed this conversation with interest 
and increasing disapproval, his face assuming a totally 
different expression, for the muscles between his nose 
and mouth drew farther back, forming with the under- 
lip an angle turning inward. Thus he gazed with mute 
reproach at the smith for some time, then pushed 
the goblet far away, exclaiming with sincere indig- 
nation : 

“ What doings are these, friend Adam ? I’ll let the 
Jew’s wine pass, and the dumplings too for aught I care, 
though it doesn’t make a Christian child more pleasing 
in the sight of God, to eat from the same dish with those 
on whom the Saviour’s innocent blood rests. But that 
you, a believing Christian, should permit an accursed 
Jew to lead a foolish lad. ...” 

“ Let that pass,” said the smith, interrupting the ex- 
cited monk; but the latter would not be restrained, and 
only continued still more loudly and firmly : “ I won’t 

be stopped. Was such a thing ever heard of? A bap- 


22 


A WORD, 


tized Christian, who sends his own son to be taught by 
the infidel soul-destroyer!” 

“ Hear me, Father !” 

“No indeed. It’s for you to hear — you! What was 
I saying? For you, you who seek for your poor child a 
soul-destroying infidel as teacher. Do you know what 
that is? A sin against the Holy Ghost — the worst of all 
crimes. Such an abomination ! You will have a heavy 
penance imposed upon you in the confessional.” 

“It’s no sin — no abomination!” replied the smith 
defiantly. 

The angry blood mounted into the monk’s cheeks, 
and he cried threateningly : “ Oho ! The chapter will 
teach you better to your sorrow. Keep the boy away 
from the Jew, or .... ” 

“Or?” repeated the smith, looking Father Benedict 
steadily in the face. 

The latter’s lips curled still more deeply, as after a 
pause, he replied: “Or excommunication and a fitting 
punishment will fall upon you and the vagabond doctor. 
Tit for tat. We have grown tender-hearted, and it 
is long since a Jew has been burned for an example to 
many.” 

These words did not fail to produce an effect, for 
though Adam was a brave man, the monk threatened 
him with things, against which he felt as powerless as 
when confronted with the might of the tempest and the 
lightning flashing from the clouds. His features now 
expressed deep mental anguish, and stretching out his 
hands repellently towards his guest, ne cried anxiously : 
“No, no! Nothing more can happen to me. No ex- 
communication, no punishment, can make my present 
suffering harder to bear, but if you harm the doctor, I 


ONLY A WORD. 


2 3 


shall curse the hour I invited you to cross my thresh- 
old.” 

The monk looked at the other in surprise and an- 
swered in a more gentle tone: ‘You have always walked 
in your own way, Adam; but whither are you going 
now? Has the Jew bewitched you, or what binds you 
to him, that you look, on his account, as if a thunder- 
bolt had struck you ? No one shall have cause to curse 
the hour he invited Benedict to be his guest. See 
your way clearly once more, and when you have come 
to your senses — why, we monks have two eyes, that 
we may be able to close one when occasion requires. — 
Have you any special cause for gratitude to Costa?” 

“ Many, Father, many !” cried the smith, his voice 
still trembling with only too well founded anxiety for 
his friend. “ Listen, and when you know what he has 
done for me, and are disposed to judge leniently, do not 
carry what reaches your ears here before the chapter — 
no, Father — I beseech you — do not. For if it should 
be I, by whom the doctor came to ruin, I — I . . . ” 

The man’s voice failed, and his chest heaved so 
violently with his gasping breath, that his stout leathern 
apron rose and fell. 

“ Be calm, Adam, be calm,” said the monk, sooth- 
ingly answering his companion’s broken words. “All 
shall be well, all shall be well. Sit down, man, and 
trust me. What is the terrible debt of gratitude you 
owe the doctor ?” 

Spite of the other’s invitation, the smith remained 
standing and with downcast eyes, began : 

“ I am not good at talking. You know how I was 
thrown into a dungeon on Valentine’s account, but no 
one can understand my feelings during that time. Ul- 


24 


A WORD, 


rich was left alone here among this miserable rabble 
with nobody to care for him, for our old maid-servant 
was seventy. I had buried my money in a safe place 
and there was nothing in the house except a loaf of 
bread and a few small coins, barely enough to last three 
days. The child was always before my eyes;, I saw 
him ragged, begging, starving. But my anxiety tor- 
tured me most, after they had released me and I was 
going back to my house from the castle. It was a walk 
of two hours, but each one seemed as long as St. 
John’s day. Should I find Ulrich or not? What had 
become of him ? It was already dark, when I at last 
stood before the house. Everything was as silent as the 
grave, and the door was locked. Yet I must get in, so I 
rapped with my fingers, and then pounded with my fist on 
the door and shutters, but all in vain. Finally Spittellorle* 
came out of the red house next mine, and I heard all. 
The old woman had become idiotic, and was in the 
stocks. Ulrich was at the point of death, and Doctor 
Costa had taken him home. When I heard this, I felt 
the same as you did just now; anger seized upon me, and 
I was as much ashamed as if I were standing in the pil- 
lory. My child with the Jew! There was not much 
time for reflection, and I set off at full speed for the 
doctor’s house. A light was shining through the win- 
dow. It was high above the street, but as it stood 
open and I am tall, I could look in and see over the 
whole room. At the right side, next the wall, was a bed, 
where amid the white pillows lay my boy. The doctor 
sat by his side, holding the child’s hand in his. Little 
Ruth nestled to him, asking : ‘ Well, father ? ’ The 

* A nickname; literally; “Hospital Laura.” 


ONLY A WORD. 


~5 


man smiled. Do you know him, Pater? He is 
about thirty years old, and has a pale, calm face. He 
smiled and said so gratefully, so — so joyously, as if 
Ulrich were his own son : ‘ Thank God, he will be 
spared to us ! * The little girl ran to her dumb mother, 
who was sitting by the stove, winding yarn, exclaiming: 
‘ Mother, he’ll get well again. I have prayed for him 
every day.’ The Jew bent over my child and pressed 
his lips upon the boy’s brow — and I, I — I no longer 
clenched my fist, and was so overwhelmed with emo- 
tion, that I could not help weeping, as if I were still a 
child myself, and since then, Pater Benedictus, since . 
He paused ; the monk rose, laid his hand on the smith’s 
shoulder, and said : 

“ It has grown late, Adam. Show me to my couch. 
Another day will come early to-morrow morning, and 
we should sleep over important matters. But one 
thing is settled, and must remain so — under all circum- 
stances : the boy is no longer to be taught by the Jew. 
He must help you shoe the horses to-morrow. You 
will be reasonable ! ” 

The smith made no reply, but lighted the monk to 
the room where he and his son usually slept. His own 
couch was covered with fresh linen for the guest — Ul- 
rich already lay in his bed, apparently asleep. 

“ We have no other room to give you,” said Adam, 
pointing to the boy ; but the monk was content with 
his sleeping companions, and after his host had left him, 
gazed earnestly at Ulrich’s fresh, handsome face. 

The smith’s story had moved him, and he did not 
go to rest at once, but paced thoughtfully up and down 
the room, stepping lightly, that he might not disturb 
the child’s slumber. 


26 


A WORD, 


Adam had reason to be grateful to the man, and 
why should there not be good Jews ? 

He thought of the patriarchs, Moses, Solomon, and 
the prophets, and had not the Saviour himself, and John 
and Paul, whom he loved above all the apostles, been 
the children of Jewish mothers, and grown up among 
Jews? And Adam! the poor fellow had had more than 
his share of trouble, and he who believes himself de- 
serted by God, easily turns to the devil. He was 
warned now, and the mischief to his son must be 
stopped once for all. What might not the child hear 
from the Jew, in these times, when heresy wandered 
about like a roaring lion, and sat by all the roads like a 
siren. Only by a miracle had this secluded valley been 
spared the evil teachings, but the peasants had already 
shown that they grudged the nobles the power, the 
cities the rich gains, and the priesthood the authority 
and earthly possessions, bestowed on them by God. 
He was disposed to let mildness rule, and spare the Jew 
this time — but only on one condition. 

When he took off his cowl, he looked for a hook on 
which to hang it, and while so doing, perceived on the 
shelf a row of boards. Taking one down, he found a 
sketch of an artistic design for the enclosure of a foun- 
tain, done by the smith’s hand, and directly opposite 
his bed a linden- wood panel, on which a portrait was 
drawn with charcoal. This roused his curiosity, and, 
throwing the light of the torch upon it, he started back, 
for it was a rudely executed, but wonderfully life-like 
head of Costa, the Jew. He remembered him perfectly, 
for he had met him more than once. 

The monk shook his head angrily, but lifted the 
picture from the shelf and examined more closely the 


ONLY A WORD. 


2-7 


doctor’s delicately-cut nose, ami the noble arch of the 
brow. While so doing, he muttered unintelligible words, 
and when at last, with little show of care, he restored 
the modest work of art to its old place, Ulrich awoke, 
and, with a touch of pride, exclaimed : 

“ I drew that myself, Father ! ” 

“ Indeed ! ” replied the monk. “ I know of better 
models for a pious lad. You must go to sleep now, 
and to-morrow get up early and help your father. Do 
you understand ? ” 

So saying, with no gentle hand he turned the boy’s 
head towards the wall. The mildness awakened by 
Adam’s story had all vanished to the winds. 

Adam allowed his son to practise idolatry with the 
Jew, and make pictures of him. This was too much. 
He threw himself angrily on his couch, and began to 
consider what was to be done in this, difficult matter, 
but sleep soon brought his reflections to an end. 

Ulrich rose very early, and when Benedict saw 
him again in the light of the young day, and once more 
looked at the Jew’s portrait, drawn by the handsome 
boy, a thought came to him as if inspired by the saints 
themselves — the thought of persuading the smith to 
give his son to the monastery. 


CHAPTER IV. 

This morning Pater Benedictus was a totally dif- 
ferent person from the man, who had sat over the wine 
the night before. Coldly and formally he evaded the 
3 


28 


A WORD, 


smith’s questions, until the latter had sent his son 
away. 

Ulrich, without making any objection, had helped 
his father shoe the sorrel horse, and in a few minutes, by 
means of a little stroking over the eyes and nose, slight 
caresses, and soothing words, rendered the refractory 
stallion as docile as a lamb. No horse had ever re- 
sisted the lad, from the time he was a little child, the 
smith said, though for what reason he did not know. 
These words pleased the monk, for he was only too 
familiar with two fillies, that were perfect fiends for 
refractoriness, and the fair-haired boy could show his 
gratitude for the schooling he received, by making him- 
self useful in the stable. 

Ulrich must go to the monastery, so Benedictus 
curtly declared with the utmost positiveness, after the 
smith had finished his work. At midsummer a place 
would be vacant in the school, and this should be re- 
served for the boy. A great favor ! What a prospect 
— to be reared there with aristocratic companions, and 
instructed in the art of painting. Whether he should 
become a priest, or follow some worldly pursuit, could 
be determined later. In a few years the boy could 
choose without restraint. 

This plan would settle everything in the best pos- 
sible way. The Jew need not be injured, and the 
smith’s imperiled son would be saved. The monk 
would hear no objections. Either the accusation 
against the doctor should be laid before the chapter, or 
Ulrich must go to the school. 

In four weeks, on St. John’s Day, so Benedictus 
declared, the smith and his son might announce their 
names to the porter. Adam must have saved many 


ONLY A WORD. 


29 


florins, and there would be time enough to get the lad 
shoes and clothes, that he might hold his own in dress 
with the other scholars. 

During this whole transaction the smith felt like a 
wild animal in the hunter’s toils, and could say neither 
“ yes ” nor “ no.” The monk did not insist upon a 
promise, but, as he rode away, flattered himself that he 
had snatched a soul from the claws of Satan, and gained 
a prize for the monastery-school and his stable — a reflec- 
tion that made him very cheerful. 

Adam remained alone beside the fire. Often, when 
his heart was heavy, he had seized his huge hammer 
and deadened his sorrow by hard work ; but to-day he 
let the tool lie, for the consciousness of weakness 
and lack of will paralyzed his lusty vigor, and he 
stood with drooping head, as if utterly crushed. The 
thoughts that moved him could not be exactly expressed 
in words, but doubtless a vision of the desolate forge, 
where he would stand alone by the fire without Ulrich, 
rose before his mind. Once the idea of closing his 
house, taking the boy by the hand, and wandering out 
into the world with him, flitted through his brain, feut 
then, what would become of the Jew, and how could he 
leave this place ? Where would his miserable wife, the ac- 
cursed, lovely sinner, find him, when she sought him again ? 

Ulrich had run out of doors long ago. Had he 
gone to study his lessons with the Jew ? He started 'in 
terror at the thought. Passing his hands over his eyes, like 
a dreamer roused from sleep, he went into his chamber, 
threw off his apron, cleansed his face and hands from 
the soot of the forge, put on his burgher dress, which he 
only wore when he went to church or visited the doc- 
tor, and entered the street, 

3 


A WORD, 


3 ° 


The thunder-storm had cleared the air, and the sun 
shone pleasantly on the shingled roofs of the miserable 
houses of the Richtberg. Its rays were reflected from 
the little round window-panes, and flickered over the 
tree-tops on the edge of the ravine. 

The light-green hue of the fresh young foliage on 
the beeches glittered as brightly against the dark pines, 
as if Spring had made them a token of her mastery over 
the grave companions of Winter; yet even the pines 
were not passed by, and where her finger had touched 
the tips of the branches in benediction, appeared tender 
young shoots, fresh as the grass by‘ the "brook, and green 
as chrysophrase and emerald. 

The stillness of morning reigned within the forest, 
yet it was full of life, rich in singing, chirping and twit- 
tering. Light streamed from the blue sky through the 
tree-tops, and the golden sunbeams shimmered and 
danced over the branches, trunks and ground, as if they 
had been prisoned in the woods and could never find 
their way out. The shadows of the tall trunks lay in 
transparent bars on the underbrush, luxuriant moss, and 
ferns, and the dew clung to the weeds and grass. 

Nature had celebrated her festival of resurrection at 
Easter, and the day after the morrow joyous Whitsun- 
tide would begin. Fresh green life was springing from 
the stump of every dead tree ; even the rocks afforded 
sustenance to a hundred roots, a mossy covering and 
network of thorny tendrils clung closely to them. The 
wild vine twined boldly up many a trunk, fruit was 
already forming on the bilberry bushes, though it still 
glimmered with a faint pink hue amid the green of 
May. A thousand blossoms, white, red, blue and yel- 
low, swayed on their slender stalks, opened their calixes 


ONLY A WORD. 


3 1 


to the bees, unfolded their stars to deck the woodland 
carpet, or proudly stretched themselves up as straight 
as candles. Grey fungi had shot up after the refreshing 
rain, and gathered round the red-capped giants among 
the mushrooms. Under, over and around all this luxu- 
riant vegetation hopped, crawled, flew, fluttered, buzzed 
and chirped millions of tiny, short-lived creatures. But 
who heeds them on a sunny Spring morning in the for- 
est, when the birds are singing, twittering, trilling, peck- 
ing, cooing and calling so joyously ? Murmuring and 
plashing, the forest stream dashed down its steep bed 
over rocks and amid moss-covered stones and smooth 
pebbles to the valley. The hurrying water lived, and 
in it dwelt its gay inhabitants, fresh plants grew along 
the banks from source to mouth, while over and around 
it a third species of living creatures sunned themselves, 
fluttered, buzzed and spun delicate silk threads. 

In the midst of a circular clearing, surrounded by 
dense woods, smoked a charcoal kiln. It was less easy 
to breathe here, than down in the forest below. Where 
Nature herself rules, she knows how to guard beauty 
and purity, but where man touches her, the former is 
impaired and the latter sullied. 

It seemed as if the morning sunlight strove to check 
the smoke from the smouldering wood, in order to 
mount freely into the blue sky. Little clouds floated 
over the damp, grassy earth, rotting tree-trunks, piles of 
wood and heaps of twigs that surrounded the kiln. A 
moss-grown hut stood at the edge of the forest, and before 
it sat Ulrich, talking with the coal-burner. People called 
this man “ Hangemarx,” and in truth he looked 
in his black rags, like one of those for whom it is a pity 
that Nature should deck herself in her Spring garb. He 




A WORD, 


had a broad, peasant face, his mouth was awry, and his 
thick yellowish-red hair, which in many places looked 
washed out or faded, hung so low over his narrow fore- 
head, that it wholly concealed it, and touched his 
bushy, snow-white brows. The eyes under them 
needed to be taken on trust, they were so well con- 
cealed, but when they peered through the narrow chink 
between the rows of lashes, not even a mote escaped 
them. Ulrich was shaping an arrow, and meantime 
asking the coal-burner numerous questions, and when the 
latter prepared to answer, the boy laughed heartily, for 
before Hangemarx could speak, he was obliged to 
straighten his crooked mouth by three jerking motions, 
in which his nose and cheeks shared. 

An important matter was being discussed between 
the two strangely dissimilar companions. 

After it grew dark, Ulrich was to come to the char- 
coal-burner again. Marx knew where a fine buck 
couched, and was to drive it towards the boy, that he 
might shoot it. The host of the Lamb down in the 
town needed game, for his Gretel was to be married 
on Tuesday. True, Marx could kill the animal him- 
self, but Ulrich had learned to shoot too, and if the 
place whence the game came should be noised abroad, 
the charcoal-burner, without any scruples of conscience, 
could swear that he did not shoot the buck, but found 
it with the arrow in its heart. 

People called the charcoal-burner a poacher, and he 
owed his ill-name of “ Hangemarx ” to the circumstance 
that once, though long ago, he had adorned a gallows. 
Yet he was not a dishonest man, only he remembered too 
faithfully the bold motto, which, when a boy, one peasant 
wood-cutter or charcoal-burner whispered to another; 


ONLY A WORD. 


33 


“ Forest, stream and meadow are free.” 

His dead father had joined the Bundschuh,* adopt- 
ed this motto, and clung fast to it and with it, to the belief 
that every living thing in the forest belonged to him, as 
much as to the city, the nobles, or the monastery. For 
this faith he had undergone much suffering, and owed to 
it his crooked mouth and ill name, for just as his beard 
was beginning to grow, the father of the reigning count 
came upon him, just after he had killed a fawn in 
the “ free ” forest. The legs of the heavy animal were 
tied together with ropes, and Marx was obliged to take 
the ends of the knot between his teeth like a bridle, and 
drag the carcass io the castle. While so doing 
his cheeks were torn open, and the evil deed neither 
pleased him nor specially strengthened his love for the 
count. When, a short time after, the rebellion broke 
out in Stiihlingen, and he heard that everywhere the 
peasants were rising against the monks and nobles, he, 
too, followed the black, red and yellow banner, first serv- 
ing with Hans Muller of Bulgenbach, then with Jacklein 
Rohrbach of Bockingen, and participating with the 
multitude in the overthrow of the city and castle of 
Neuenstein. At Weinsberg he saw Count Helfenstein 
rush upon the spears, and when the noble countess was 
driven past him to Heilbronn in the dung-cart, he 
tossed his cap in the air with the rest. 

The peasant was to be lord now ; the yoke of cen- 
turies was to be broken; unjust imposts, taxes, tithes 
and villenage would be forever abolished, while the 
fourth of the twelve articles he had heard read aloud 


* A peasants* league which derived its name from the shoe, ol 
peculiar shape, worn by its members. 


34 


A WORD, 


more than once, remained firmly fixed in his memory : 
“ Game, birds and fish every one is free to catch.’’ 
Moreover, many a verse from the Gospel, unfavorable 
to the rich, but promising the kingdom of heaven to the 
poor, and that the last shall be first, had reached his 
ears. Doubtless many of the leaders glowed with 
lofty enthusiasm for the liberation of the poor people 
from unendurable serfdom and oppression; but when 
Marx, and men like him, left wife and children 
and risked their lives, they remembered only the past, 
and the injustice they had suffered, and were full of a 
fierce yearning to trample the dainty, torturing demons 
under their heavy peasant feet. 

The charcoal-burner had never lighted such bright 
fires, never tasted such delicious meat and spicy wine, 
as during that period of his life, while vengeance had a 
still sweeter savor than all the rest. When the castle 
fell, and its noble mistress begged for mercy, he enjoyed 
a foretaste of the promised paradise. Satan has also 
his Eden of fiery roses, but they do not last long, and 
when they wither, put forth sharp thorns. The peasants 
felt them soon enough, for at Sindelfingen they found 
their master in Captain Georg Truchsess of Waldberg. 

Marx fell into his troopers’ hands and was hung on 
the gallows, but only in mockery and as a warning to 
others ; for before he and his companions perished, the 
men took them down, cut their oath-fingers from their 
hands, and drove them back into their old servitude. 

When he at last returned home, his house had been 
taken from his family, whom he found in extreme 
poverty. The father of Adam, the smith, to whom he 
had formerly sold charcoal, redeemed the house, gave 
him work, and once, when a band of horsemen came to 


ONLY A WORD. 


35 


the city searching for rebellious peasants, the old man 
did not forbid him to hide three whole days in his 
barn. 

Since that time everything had been quiet in Swabia, 
and neither in forest, stream nor meadow had any free- 
dom existed. 

Marx had only himself to provide for ; his wife was 
dead, and his sons were raftsmen, who took pine logs 
to Mayence and Cologne, sometimes even as far as 
Holland. He owed gratitude to no one but Adam, 
and showed in his way that he was conscious of it, for 
he taught Ulrich all sorts of things which were of no 
advantage to a boy, except to give him pleasure, though 
even in so doing he did not forget his own profit. 
Ulrich was now fifteen, and could manage a cross-bow 
and hit the mark like a skilful hunter, and as the lad did 
not lack a love for the chase, Marx afforded him the 
pleasure. All he had heard about the equal rights of 
men he engrafted into the boy’s soul, and when to-day, 
for the hundredth time, Ulrich expressed a doubt 
whether it was not stealing to kill game that belonged 
to the count, the charcoal-burner straightened his 
mouth, and said : 

“ Forest, stream and meadow are free. Surely you 
know that.” 

The boy gazed thoughtfully at the ground for a 
time, and then asked : 

“ The fields too ? ” 

“ The fields ? ” repeated Marx, in surprise. “ The 
fields ? The fields are a different matter.” He glanced 
as he spoke, at the field of oats he had sown in the 
autumn, and which now bore blades a finger long. “ The 
fields are man’s work and belong to him who tills them, 


36 


A WORD, 


but the forest, stream and meadow were made by God. 
Do you understand ? What God created for Adam 
and Eve is everybody’s property.” 

As the sun rose higher, and the cuckoo began to 
raise its voice, Ulrich’s name was shouted loudly several 
times in rapid succession through the forest. The arrow 
he had been shaping flew into a corner, and with a 
hasty “ When it grows dusk, Marxle ! ” Ulrich dashed 
into the woods, and soon joined his playmate Ruth. 

The pair strolled slowly through the forest by the 
side of the stream, enjoying the glorious morning, and 
gathering flowers to carry a bouquet to the little girl’s 
mother. Ruth culled the blossoms daintily with the 
tips of her fingers ; Ulrich wanted to help, and tore the 
slender stalks in tufts from the roots by the hand- 
ful. Meantime their tongues were not idle. Ulrich 
boastfully told her that Pater Benedictus had seen his 
picture of her father, recognized it instantly, and mut- 
tered something over it. His mother’s blood was strong 
in him ; his imaginary world was a very different one 
from that of the narrow-minded boys of the Richt- 
berg. 

His father had told him much, and the doctor still 
more, about the wide, wide world — kings, artists and 
great heroes. From Hangemarx he learned, that he 
possessed the same rights and dignity as all other men, 
and Ruth’s wonderful power of imagination peopled his 
fancy with the strangest shapes and figures. She made 
royal crowns of wreaths, transformed the little hut, the 
lad had built of boughs, behind the doctor’s house, into a 
glittering imperial palace, converted round pebbles into 
ducats and golden zechins — bread and apples into 
princely banquets ; and when she had placed two stools 


ONLY A WORD. 


37 


before the wooden bench on which she sat with Ulrich, 
her fancy instantly transformed them into a silver cor- 
onation coach with milk-white steeds. When she was a 
fairy, Ulrich was obliged to be a magician ; if she was 
the queen, he was king. 

When, to give vent to his animal spirits, Ulrich 
played with the Richtberg boys, he always led them, 
but allowed himself to be guided by little Ruth. He 
knew that the doctor was a despised Jew, that she was 
a Jewish child; but his father honored the Hebrew, and 
the foreign atmosphere, the aristocratic, secluded repose 
that pervaded the solitary scholar’s house, exerted a 
strange influence over him. 

When he entered it, a thrill ran through his frame ; it 
seemed as if he were penetrating into some forbidden 
sanctuary. He was the only one of all his playfellows, 
who was permitted to cross this threshold, and he felt 
it as a distinction, for, in spite of his youth, he realized 
that the quiet doctor, who kneAv everything that existed 
in heaven and on earth, and yet was as mild and gentle 
as a child, stood far, far above the miserable drudges, 
who struggled with sinewy hands for mere existence on 
the Richtberg. He expected everything from him, 
and Ruth also seemed a very unusual creature, a deli- 
cate work of art, with whom he, and he only, was 
allowed to play. 

It might have happened, that when irritated he would 
upbraid her with being a wretched Jewess, but it would 
scarcely have surprised him, if she had suddenly stood 
before his eyes as a princess or a phoenix. 

When the Richtberg lay close beneath tllem, Ruth 
sat down on a stone, placing her flowers in her lap. 
Ulrich threw his in too, and, as the bouquet grew, she 




A WORD, 


held it towards him, and he thought it very pretty ; but 
she said, sighing : 

“ I wish roses grew in the forest; not common hedge- 
roses, but like those in Portugal — full, red, and with 
the real perfume. There is nothing that smells sweeter.” 

So it always was with the pair. Ruth far outstripped 
Ulrich in her desires and wants, thus luring him to 
follow her. 

“A rose!” repeated Ulrich. “ How astonished you 
look ! ” 

Her wish reminded him of the magic word she had 
mentioned the day before, and they talked about it all 
the way home, Ulrich saying that he had waked three 
times in the night on account of it. Ruth eagerly in- 
terrupted him, exclaiming : 

“ I thought of it again too, and if any one would 
tell me what it was, I should know what to wish now. 
I would not have a single human being in the world 
except you and me, and my father and mother.” 

“ And my little mother ! ” added Ulrich, earnestly. 

“ And your father, too ! ” 

“ Why, of course, he, too ! ” said the boy, as if to 
make hasty atonement for his neglect. 


CHAPTER V. 

The sun was shining brightly on the little windows 
of the Israelite’s sitting-room, which were half open to 
admit the Spring air, though lightly shaded with green 
curtains, for Costa liked a subdued light, and was al- 
ways careful to protect his apartment from the eyes of 
passers-by. 


ONLY A WORD. 


39 


There was nothing remarkable to be seen,, for the 
walls were whitewashed, and their only ornament was 
a garland of lavender leaves, whose perfume Ruth’s 
mother liked to inhale. The whole furniture consisted 
of a chest, several stools, a bench covered with cushions, 
a table, and two plain wooden arm-chairs. 

One of the latter had long been the scene of Adam’s 
happiest hours, for he used to sit in it when he played 
chess with Costa. 

He had sometimes looked on at the noble game 
while in Nuremberg; but the doctor understood it 
thoroughly, and had initiated him into all its rules. 

For the first two years Costa had remained far in ad- 
vance of his pupil, then he was compelled to defend 
himself in good earnest, and now it not unfrequently hap- 
pened that the smith vanquished the scholar. True, 
the latter was much quicker than the former, who if the 
situation became critical, pondered over it an uncon- 
scionably long time. 

Two hands more unlike had rarely met over a 
chess-board ; one suggested a strong, dark plough- 
ox, the other a light, slender-limbed palfrey. The 
Israelite’s figure looked small in contrast with the 
smith’s gigantic frame. How coarse-grained, how 
heavy with thought the German’s big, fair head ap- 
peared, how delicately moulded and intellectual the 
Portuguese Jew’s. 

To-day the two men had again sat down to the 
game, but instead of playing, had been talking very, 
very earnestly. In the course of the conversation the 
doctor had left his place and was pacing restlessly to 
and fro. Adam retained his seat. 

His friend’s arguments had convinced him. Ul- 


46 


A WORD, 


rich was to be sent to the monastery-school. Costa 
had also been informed of the danger that threatened 
his own person, and was deeply agitated. The peril 
was great, very great, yet it was hard, cruelly hard, to 
quit this peaceful nook. The smith understood what 
was passing in his mind, and said : 

“ It is hard for you to go. What binds you here to 
the Richtberg ? ” 

“ Peace, peace ! ” cried the other. “ And then,” he 
added more calmly, “ I have gained land here.” 

“ You ? ” 

“ The large and small graves behind the executioner’s 
house, they are my estates.” 

“ It is hard, hard to leave them,” said the smith, with 
drooping head. “ All this comes upon you on account 
of the kindness you have shown my boy ; you have had 
a poor reward from us.” 

“ Reward ? ” asked the other, a subtle smile hover- 
ing around his lips. “ I expect none, neither from you 
nor fate. I belong to a poor sect, that does not con- 
sider whether its deeds will be repaid or not. We love 
goodness, set a high value on it, and practise it, so far 
as our power extends, because it is so beautiful. What 
have men called good ? Only that which keeps the 
soul calm. And what is evil ? That which fills it with 
disquiet. I tell you, that the hearts of those who pursue 
virtue, though they are driven from their homes, hunted 
and tortured like noxious beasts, are more tranquil than 
those of their powerful persecutors, who practise evil. He 
who seeks any other reward for virtue, than virtue itself, 
will not lack disappointment. It is neither you nor Ulrich, 
who drives me hence, but the mysterious ancient curse, 
that pursues my people when they seek to rest ; it is, it 


ONLY A WORD. 


4 1 


is ... . Another time, to-morrow. This is enough for 
to-day.” 

When the doctor was alone, he pressed his hand to 
his brow and groaned aloud. His whole life passed 
before his mind, and he found in it, besides terrible 
suffering, great and noble joys, and not an hour in which 
his desire for virtue was weakened. He had spent 
happy years here in the peace of his simple home, and 
now must again set forth and wander on and on, with 
nothing before his eyes save an uncertain goal, at the 
end of a long, toilsome road. What had hitherto been 
his happiness, increased his misery in this hour. It 
was hard, unspeakably hard, to drag his wife and child 
through want and sorrow, and could Elizabeth, his 
wife, bear it again ? 

He found her in the tiny garden behind the house, 
kneeling before a flower-bed to weed it. As he greeted her 
pleasantly, she rose and beckoned to him. 

“ Let us sit down,” he said, leading her to the bench 
before the hedge, that separated the garden from the 
forest. There he meant to tell her, that they must again 
shake the dust from their feet. 

She had lost the power of speech on the rack in 
Portugal, and could only falter a few unintelligible 
words, when greatly excited, but her hearing had re- 
mained, and her husband understood how to read the 
expression of her eyes. A great sorrow had drawn a 
deep line in the high, pure brow, and this also was 
eloquent; for when she felt happy and at peace it was 
scarcely perceptible, but if an anxious or sorrowful 
mood existed, the furrow contracted and deepened. 
To-day it seemed to have entirely disappeared. Her 
fair hair was drawn plainly and smoothly over her 


42 


A WORD, 


temples, and the slender, slightly stooping figure, re- 
sembled a young tree, which the storm has bowed and 
deprived of strength and will to raise itself. 

“ Beautiful ! ” she exclaimed in a smothered tone, 
with much effort, but her bright glance clearly expressed 
the joy that filled her soul, as she pointed to the green 
foliage around her and the blue sky over their heads. 

“Delicious — delicious!” he answered, cordially. 
“ The June day is reflected in your dear face. You 
have learned to be contented here ?” 

Elizabeth nodded eagerly, pressing both hands upon 
her heart, while her eloquent glance told him how well, 
how grateful and happy, she felt here ; and when in re- 
ply to his timid question, whether it would be hard for 
her to leave this place and seek another, a safer home, 
she gazed at first in surprise, then anxiously into his 
face, and then, with an eager gesture of refusal, gasped : 
“ Not go — not go ! ” He answered, soothingly : 

“ No, no ; we are still safe here to-day ! ” 

Elizabeth knew her husband, and had keen eyes ; a 
presentiment of approaching danger seized upon her. 
Her features assumed an expression of terrified expec- 
tation and deep grief. The furrow in her brow deep- 
ened, and questioning glances and gestures united with 
the “ What ? — what ? ” trembling on her lips. 

“Do not fear!” he replied, tenderly. “We must 
not spoil the present, because the future might bring 
something that is not agreeable to us.” 

As he uttered the words, she pressed closely to him, 
clutching his arm with both hands, but he felt the rapid 
throbbing of her heart, and perceived by the violent 
agitation expressed in every feature, what deep, uncon- 
querable horror was inspired by the thought of being 


ONLY A WORD. 


43 


compelled to go out into the world again, hunted from 
country to country, from town to town. All that she had 
suffered for his sake, came back to his memory, and he 
clasped her trembling hands in his with passionate 
fervor. It seemed as if it would be very, very easy, to 
die with her, but wholly impossible to thrust her forth 
again into a foreign land and to an uncertain fate; 
so, kissing her on her eyes, which were dilated with hor- 
rible fear, he exclaimed, as if no peril, but merely a foolish 
wish had suggested the desire to roam : 

“ Yes, child, it is best here. Let us be content with 
what we have. We will stay ! — yes, we will stay !” 

Elizabeth drew a long breath, as if relieved from an 
incubus, her brow became smooth, and it seemed as 
if the dumb mouth joined the large upraised eyes in 
uttering an “ Amen,” that came from the inmost depths 
of the heart. 

Costa’s soul was saddened and sorely troubled, when 
he returned to the house and his writing-table. The 
old maid-servant, who had accompanied him from 
Portugal, entered at the same time, and watched his 
preparations, shaking her head. She was a small, 
crippled Jewess, a grey-haired woman, with youthful, 
bright, dark eyes, and restless hands, that fluttered about 
her face with rapid, convulsive gestures, while she talked. 

She had grown old in Portugal, and contracted 
rheumatism in the unusual cold of the North, so even 
in Spring she wrapped her head in all the gay kerchiefs 
she owned. She kept the house scrupulously neat, 
understood how to prepare tempting dishes from very 
simple materials, and bought everything she needed for 
the kitchen. This was no trifling matter for her, since, 
though she had lived more than nine years in the Black 
4 


44 


A WORD, 


Forest, she had learned few German words. Even 
these the neighbors mistook for Portuguese, though they 
thought the language bore some distant resemblance to 
German. Her gestures they understood perfectly. 

She had voluntarily followed the doctor’s father, yet 
she could not forgive the dead man, for having brought 
her out of the warm South into this horrible country. 
Having been her present master’s nurse, she took many 
liberties with him, insisting upon knowing everything 
that went on in the household, of which she felt herself 
the oldest, and therefore the most distinguished member; 
and it was strange how quickly she could hear when 
she chose, spite of her muffled ears ! 

To-day she had been listening again, and as her 
master was preparing to take his seat at the table and 
sharpen his goose-quill, she glanced around to see that 
they were entirely alone; then approached, saying in 
Portuguese : 

“ Don’t begin that, Lopez. You must listen to me 
first.” 

“ Must I ? ” he asked, kindly. 

“ If you don’t choose to do it, I can go!” she an- 
swered, angrily. “ To be sure, sitting still is more com- 
fortable than running.” 

“ What do you mean by that ? ” 

“ Do you suppose yonder books are the walls of 
Zion ? Do you feel inclined to make the monks’ ac- 
quaintance once more ?” 

“ Fie, fie, Rahel, listening again ? Go into the 
kitchen ! ” 

“ Directly ! Directly ! But I will speak first. You 
pretend, that you are only staying here to please your 
wife, but it’s no such thing. It’s yonder writing that 


ONLY A WORD. 


45 


keeps you. I know life, but you and your wife are just 
like two children. Evil is forgotten in the twinkling of 
an eye, and blessing is to come straight from Heaven, 
like quails and manna. What sort of a creature have 
your books made you, since you came with the doctor’s 
hat from Coimbra ? Then everybody said : ‘ Lopez, 
Senor Lopez. Heavenly Father, what a shining light 
he’ll be ! ’ And now ! The Lord have mercy on us ! 
You work, work, and what does it bring you ? Not an 
egg; not a rush! Go to your uncle in the Nether- 
lands. He’ll forget the curse, if you submit! How 
many of the zechins, your father saved, are still left ?” 

Here the doctor interrupted the old woman’s tor- 
rent of speech with a stem “ enough ! ” but she would 
not allow herself to be checked, and continued with 
increasing volubility. 

“ Enough, you say ? I fret over perversity enough 
in silence. May my tongue wither, if I remain mute 
to-day. Good God ! child, are you out of your senses ? 
Everything has been crammed into your poor head, but 
to be sure it isn’t written in the books, that when people 
find out what happened in Porto, and that you married 
a baptized child, a Gentile, a Christian girl. . . .” 

At these words the doctor rose, laid his hands on 
the servant’s shoulder, and said with grave, quiet 
earnestness. 

“Whoever speaks of that, may betray it; may 
betray it. Do you understand me, Rahel ? I know 
your good intentions, and therefore tell you : my wife is 
content here, and danger is still far away. We shall 
stay. And besides : since Elizabeth became mine, the 
Jews avoid me as an accursed, the Christians as a con- 
demned man. The former close the doors, the latter 
4 


4 6 


A WORD, 


would fain open them ; the gates of a prison, I mean. 
No Portuguese will come here, but in the Netherlands 
there is more than one monk and one Jew from Porto, 
and if any of them recognize me and find Elizabeth 
with me, it will involve no less trifle than her life and 
mine. I shall stay here ; you now know why, and can 
go to your kitchen.” 

Old Rahel reluctantly obeyed, yet the doctor did 
not resume his seat at the writing-table, but for a long 
time paced up and down among his books more 
rapidly than usual. 


CHAPTER VI. 

St. John’s day was close at hand. Ulrich was to go 
to the monastery the following morning. Hitherto 
Father Benedict had been satisfied, and no one mo- 
lested the doctor. Yet the tranquillity, which formerly 
exerted so beneficial an effect, had departed, and the 
measures of precaution he now felt compelled to adopt, 
like everything else that brought him into connection 
with the world, interrupted the progress of his work. 

The smith was obliged to provide Ulrich with cloth- 
ing, and for this purpose went with the lad and a well- 
filled purse, not to his native place, but to the nearest 
large city. 

There many a handsome suit of garments hung in 
the draper’s windows, and the barefooted boy blushed 
crimson with delight, when he stood before this splendid 
show. As he was left free to choose, he instantly se- 
lected the clothes a nobleman had ordered for his son, 


ONLY A WORD. 


47 


and which, from head to foot, were blue on one side 
and yellow on the other. But Adam pushed them 
angrily aside. Ulrich’s pleasure in the gay stuff re- 
minded him of his wife’s outfit, the pink and green 
gowns. 

So he bought two dark suits, which fitted the lad’s 
erect figure as if moulded upon him, and when the latter 
stood before him in the inn, neatly dressed, with shoes 
on his feet, and a student’s cap on his head, Adam 
could not help gazing at him almost idolatrously. 

The tavern-keeper whispered to the smith, that it 
was long since he had seen so handsome a young fel- 
low, and the hostess, after bringing the beer, stroked 
the boy’s curls with her wet hand. 

On reaching home, Adam permitted his son to go 
to the doctor’s in his new clothes ; Ruth screamed with 
joy when she saw him, walked round and round him, 
and curiously felt the woollen stuff of the doublet and 
its blue slashes, ever and anon clapping her hands in 
delight. 

Her parents had expected that the parting would 
excite her most painfully, but she smiled joyously into 
her playmate’s face, when he bade her farewell, for she 
took the matter in her usual way, not as it really was, 
but as she imagined it to be. Instead of the awkward 
Ulrich of the present, the fairy-prince he was now to 
become stood before her ; he was to return without fail 
at Christmas, and then how delightful it would be to 
play with him again. Of late they had been together 
even more than usual, continually seeking for the word, 
and planning a thousand delightful things he was to 
conjure up for her, and she for him and others. 

It was the Sabbath, and on this day old Rahel 


4 8 


A WORD, 


always dressed the child in a little yellow silk frock, 
while on Sunday her mother did the same. The gown 
particularly pleased Ulrich’s eye, and when she wore it. 
he always became more yielding and obeyed her every 
wish. So Ruth rejoiced that it chanced to be the Sab- 
bath, and while she passed her hand over his doublet, 
he stroked her silk dress. 

They had not much to say to each other, for their 
tongues always faltered in the presence of others. The 
doctor gave Ulrich many an admonitory word, his wife 
kissed him, and as a parting remembrance hung a small 
gold ring, with a glittering stone, about his neck, and 
old Rahel gave him a kerchief full of freshly-baked 
cakes to eat on his way. 

At noon on St. John’s day, Ulrich and his father 
stood before the gate of the monastery. Servants and 
mettled steeds were waiting there, and the porter, point- 
ing to them, said : “ Count Frohlinger is within.” 

Adam turned pale, pressed his son so convulsively 
to his breast that he groaned with pain, sent a lay- 
brother to call Father Benedict, confided his child to 
him, and walked towards home with drooping head. 

Hitherto Ulrich had not known whether to enjoy or 
dread the thought of going to the monastery-school. 
The preparations had been pleasant enough, and the 
prospect of sharing the same bench with the sons of 
noblemen and aristocratic citizens, flattered his vanity ; 
but when he saw his father depart, his heart melted and 
his eyes grew wet. The monk, noticing this, drew him 
towards him, patted his shoulder, and said : “ Keep up 
your courage! You will see that it is far pleasanter 
with us, than down in the Richtberg.” 

This gave Ulrich food for thought, and he did not 


ONLY A WORD. 


49 


glance around as the Father led him up the steep stairs 
to the landing-place, and past the refectory into the 
court-yard. 

Monks were pacing silently up and down the cor- 
ridors that surrounded it, and one after another raised 
his shaven head higher over his white cowl, to cast a 
look at the new pupil. 

Behind the court-yard stood the stately, gable-roofed 
building containing the guest-rooms, and between it 
and the church lay the school-garden, a meadow 
planted with fruit trees, separated from the highway by 
a wall. 

Benedictus opened the wooden gate, and pushed 
Ulrich into the playground. 

The noise there had been loud enough, but at his 
entrance the game stopped, and his future companions 
nudged each other, scanning him with scrutinizing 
glances. 

The monk beckoned- to several of the pupils, and 
made them acquainted with the smith’s son, then strok- 
ing Ulrich’s curls again, left him alone with the others. 

On St. J ohn’s day the boys were given their liberty 
and allowed to play to their hearts’ content. 

They took no special notice of Ulrich, and after 
having stared sufficiently and exchanged a few words 
with him, continued their interrupted game of trying to 
throw stones over the church roof. 

Meantime Ulrich looked at his comrades. 

There were large and small, fair and dark lads 
among them, but not one with whom he could not 
have coped. To this point his scrutiny was first 
directed. 

At last he turned his attention to the game. Many 


A WORD. 


5 ° 

of the stones, that had been thrown, struck the slates on 
the roof ; not one had passed over the church. The 
longer the unsuccessful efforts lasted, the more evident 
became the superior smile on Ulrich’s lips, the faster 
his heart throbbed. His eyes searched the grass, and 
when he had discovered a flat, sharp -edged stone, he 
hurriedly stooped, pressed silently into the ranks of the 
players, and bending the upper part of his body far 
back, summoned all his strength, and hurled the stone 
in a beautiful curve high into the air. 

Forty sparkling eyes followed it, and a loud shout 
of joy rang out as it vanished behind the church roof. 

One alone, a tall, thin, black-haired lad, remained 
silent, and while the others were begging Ulrich to 
throw again, searched for a stone, exerted all his power 
to equal the “ greenhorn,” and almost succeeded, 

Ulrich now sent a second stone after the first, and, 
again the cast was successful. Dark-browed Xaver 
instantly seized a new missile, and the contest that now 
followed so engrossed the attention of all, that they saw 
and heard nothing until a deep voice, in a firm, though 
not unkind tone, called: “Stop, boys! No games 
must be played with the church.” 

At these words the younger boys hastily dropped 
the stones they had gathered, for the man who had 
shouted, was no less a personage than the Lord Abbot 
himself. 

Soon the lads approached to kiss the ecclesiastic’s 
hand or sleeve, and the stately priest, who understood 
how to guide those subject to him by a glance of his 
dark eyes, graciously and kindly accepted the salutation. 

“ Grave in office, and gay in sport ” was his device. 
Count von Frohlinger, who had entered the garden 


ONLY A WORD. 


5 1 


with him, looked like one whose motto runs: “ Never 
grave and always gay.” 

The nobleman had not grown younger since Ul- 
rich’s mother fled into the world, but his eyes still spark- 
led joyously and the brick-red hue that tinged his 
handsome face between his thick white moustache and 
his eyes, announced that he was no less friendly to wine 
than to fair women. How well his satin clothes and 
velvet cloak became him, how beautifully the white 
puffs were relieved against the deep blue of his dress ! 
How proudly the white and yellow plumes arched over 
his cap, and how delicate were the laces on his collar 
and cuffs! His son, the very image of the handsome 
father, stood beside him, and the couat had laid his 
hand familiarly on his shoulder, as if he were not his 
child, but a friend and comrade. 

“ A devil of a fellow ! ” whispered the count to the 
abbot. “ Did you see the fair-haired lad’s throw ? 
From what house does the young noble come ? ” 

The prelate shrugged his shoulders, and answered 
smiling : 

“ From the smithy at Richtberg.” 

“ Does he belong to Adam ? ” laughed the other. 
“Zounds! I had a bitter hour in the confessional on 
his mother’s account. He has inherited the beautiful 
Florette’s hair and eyes; otherwise he looks like his 
father. With your permission, my Lord Abbot, I’ll call 
the boy.” 

“ Afterwards, afterwards,” replied the superior of the 
monastery in a tone of friendly denial, which permitted 
no contradiction. “ First tell the boys, what we have 
decided?” 

Count Frohlinger .bowed respectfully, then drew his 


52 


A WORD* 


son closer to his side, and waited for the boys, to whom 
the abbot beckoned. 

As soon as they had gathered in a group before 
him, the nobleman exclaimed : 

“ You have just bid this good-for-nothing farewell. 
What should you say, if I left him among you till 
Christmas ? The Lord Abbot will keep him, and you, 
you. . . 

But he had no time to finish the sentence. The 
pupils rushed upon him, shouting : 

“ Stay here, Philipp ! Count Lips must stay ! ” 

One little flaxen-headed fellow nestled closely to his 
regained protector, another kissed the count’s hand, 
and two larger boys seized Philipp by the arm and tried 
to drag him away from his father, back into their circle. 

The abbot looked on at the tumult kindly, and 
bright tear-drops ran down into the old count’s beard, 
for his heart was easily touched. When he recovered 
his composure, he exclaimed : 

u Lips shall stay, you rogues ; he shall stay ! And 
the Lord Abbot has given you permission, to come with 
me to-day to my hunting-box and light a St. John’s fire. 
There shall be no lack of cakes and wine.” 

“ Hurrah ! — hurrah ! Long live the count !” shout- 
ed the pupils, and all who had caps tossed them into 
the air. Ulrich was carried away by the enthusiasm 
of the others; and all the evil words his father had 
so lavishly heaped on the handsome, merry gentle- 
man — all Hangemarx’s abuse of knights and nobles 
were forgotten. 

The abbot and his companion withdrew, but as soon 
as the boys knew that they were unobserved, Count 
Lips cried : 


ONLY A WORD. 


S3 


“ You fellow yonder, you greenhorn, threw the stone 
over the roof. I saw it. Come here. Over the roof? 
That should be my right. Whoever breaks the first 
window in the steeple, shall be victor.” 

The smith’s son felt embarrassed, for he shrank from 
the mischief and feared his father and the abbot. But 
when the young count held out his closed hands, say- 
ing : “ If you choose the red stone, you shall throw first,” 
he pointed to his companion’s right hand, and, as it 
concealed the red pebble, began the contest. He 
threw the stone, and struck the window. Amid loud 
shouts of exultation from the boys, more than one 
round pane of glass, loosened from the leaden casing, 
rattled in broken fragments on the church roof, and 
from thence fell silently on the grass. Count Lips 
laughed aloud in his delight, and was preparing to 
follow Ulrich’s example, but the wooden gate was 
pushed violently open, and Brother Hieronymus, the 
most severe of all the monks, appeared in the play- 
ground. The zealous priest’s cheeks glowed with anger, 
terrible were the threats he uttered, and declaring that 
the festival of St. John should not be celebrated, unless 
the shameless wretch, who had blasphemously shattered 
the steeple window, confessed his fault, he scanned the 
pupils with rolling eyes. 

Young Count Lips stepped boldly forward, saying 
beseechingly : 

“ I did it, Father — unintentionally ! Forgive me ! ” 

“ You ? ” asked the monk, his voice growing lower 
and more gentle, as he continued: “ Folly and wanton- 
ness without end ! When will you learn discretion, 
Count Philipp ? But as you did it unintentionally, I 
will let it pass for to-day.” 


54 


A WORD, 


With these words, the monk left the court-yard; and 
as soon as the gate had closed behind him, Ulrich ap- 
proached his generous companion, and said in a tone 
that only he could hear, yet grateful to the inmost 
depths of his heart : 

“ I will repay you some day.” 

“Nonsense!” laughed the young count, throwing 
his arm over the shoulder of the artisan’s son. “ If 
the glass wouldn’t rattle, I would throw now ; but 
there’s another day coming to-morrow.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

Autumn had come. The yellow leaves were flut- 
tering about the school play-ground, the starlings were 
gathering in flocks on the church roof to take their de- 
parture, and Ulrich would fain have gone with them, 
no matter where. He could not feel at home in the 
monastery and among his companions. Always first 
in Richtberg, he was rarely so here, most seldom of all 
in school, for his father had forbidden the doctor to 
teach him Latin, so in that study he was last of all. 

Often, when every one was asleep, the poor lad sat 
studying by the ever-burning lamp in the lobby, 
but in vain. He could not come up with the others, and 
the unpleasant feeling of remaining behind, in spite of 
the most honest effort, spoiled his life and made him 
irritable. 

His comrades did not spare him, and when they 
called him “ horse-boy,” because he was often obliged 
to help Pater Benedictus in bringing refractory horses to 


ONLY A WORD. 


55 

reason, he flew into a rage and used his superior 
strength. 

He stood on the worst terms of all with black-haired 
Xaver, to whom he owed the nickname. 

This boy’s father was the chief magistrate of the 
little city, and was allowed to take his son home with 
him at Michaelmas. 

When the black-haired lad returned, he had many 
things to tell, gathered from half-understood rumor, 
about Ulrich’s parents. Words were now uttered, that 
brought the blood to Ulrich’s cheeks, yet he intention- 
ally pretended not to hear them, because he dared not 
contradict tales that might be true. He well knew who 
had brought all these stories to the others, and answered 
Xaver’s malicious spite with open enmity. 

Count Lips did not trouble himself about any of 
these things, but remained Ulrich’s most intimate friend, 
and was fond of going with him to see the horses. His 
vivacious intellect joyously sympathized with the smith’s 
son, when he told him about Ruth’s imaginary visions, 
and often in the play-ground he went apart with Ulrich 
from their companions ; but this very circumstance was 
a thing that many, who had formerly been on more in- 
timate terms with the aristocratic boy, were not disposed 
to forgive the new-comer. 

Xaver had never been friendly to the count’s son, 
and succeeded in irritating many against their former 
favorite, because he fancied himself better than they, 
and still more against Ulrich, who was half a servant, 
yet presumed to play the master and offer them vio- 
lence. 

The monks employed in the school soon noticed 
the ill terms, on which the new pupil stood with his 


A WORD, 


5 ^ 

companions, and did not lack reasons for shaking their 
heads over him. 

Benedictus had not been able to conceal, who had 
been Ulrich’s teacher in Richtberg; and the seeds the 
Jew had planted in the boy, seemed to be bearing 
strange and vexatious fruit. 

Father Hieronymus, who instructed the pupils in 
religion, fairly raged, when he spoke of the destructive 
doctrines, that haunted the new scholar’s head. 

When, soon after Ulrich’s reception into the school, 
he had spoken of Christ’s work of redemption, and 
asked the boy : “ From what is the world to be de- 
livered by the Saviour’s suffering ? ” the answer was : 
“ From the arrogance of the rich and great.” 

Hieronymus had spoken of the holy sacraments, 
and put the question : “ By what means can the Chris- 
tian surely obtain mercy, unless he bolts the door against 
it — that is, commits a mortal sin?” and Ulrich’s an- 
swer was : “ By doing unto others, what you would have 
others do unto you.” 

Such strange words might be heard by dozens from 
the boy’s lips. Some were repeated from Hangemarx’s 
sayings, others from the doctor’s ; and when asked 
where he obtained them, he quoted only the latter, for 
the monks were not to be allowed to know anything 
about his intercourse with the poacher. 

Sharp reproofs and severe penances were now be- 
stowed, for many a word that he had thought beautiful 
and pleasing in the sight of God ; and the poor, tor- 
tured young soul often knew no help in its need. 

He could not turn to the dear God and the Saviour, 
whom he was said to have blasphemed, for he feared 
them ; but when he could no longer bear his grief, dis* 


ONLY A WORD. 57 

couragement, and yearning, he prayed to the Madonna 
for help. 

The image of the unhappy woman, about whom he 
had heard nothing but ill words, who had deserted him, 
and whose faithlessness gave the other boys a right to 
jeer at him, floated before his eyes, with that of the 
pure, holy Virgin in the church, brought by Father 
Lukas from Italy. 

In spite of all the complaints about him, which were 
carried to the abbot, the latter thought him a misguided, 
but good and promising boy, an opinion strengthened 
by the music-teacher and the artist Lukas, whose best 
pupil Ulrich was; but they also were enraged against 
the Jew, who had lured this nobly-gifted child along 
the road of destruction; and often urged the abbot, 
who was anything but a zealot, to subject him to an 
examination by torture. 

In November, the chief magistrate was summoned, 
and informed of the heresies with which the Hebrew 
had imperiled the soul of a Christian child. 

The wise abbot wished to avoid anything, that would 
cause excitement, during this time of rebellion against 
the power of the Church, but the magistrate claimed 
the right to commence proceedings against the doctor. 
Of course, he said, sufficient proof must be brought 
against the accused. Father Hieronymus might note 
down the blasphemous tenets he heard from the boy’s 
lips before witnesses, and at the Advent season the 
smith and his son would be examined. 

The abbot, who liked to linger over his books, 
was glad to know that the matter was in the hands 
of the civil authorities, and enjoined Hieronymus 
to pay strict attention. 


A WORD, 

On the third Sunday in Advent, the magistrate 
again came to the monastery. His horses had worked 
their way with the sleigh through the deep snow in the 
ravine with much difficulty, and, half-frozen, he went 
directly to the refectory and there asked for his son. 

The latter was lying with a bandaged eye in the 
cold dormitory, and when his father sought him, he 
heard that Ulrich had wounded him. 

It would not have needed Xaver’s bitter complaints, 
to rouse his father to furious rage against the boy who 
had committed this violence, and he was by no means 
satisfied, when he learned that the culprit had been ex- 
cluded for three weeks from the others’ sports, and placed 
on a very frugal diet. He went furiously to the abbot. 

The day before (Saturday), Ulrich had gone at noon, 
without the young count, who was in confinement for 
some offence, to the snow-covered play-ground, where 
he was attacked by Xaver and a dozen of his comrades, 
pushed into a snow-bank, and almost suffocated. The 
conspirators had stuffed icicles and snow under his 
clothes next his skin, taken off his shoes and filled them 
with snow, and meantime Xaver jumped upon his back, 
pressing his face into the snow till Ulrich lost his 
breath, and believed his last hour had come. 

Exerting the last remnant of his strength, he had 
succeeded in throwing off and seizing his tormentor. 

While the others fled, he wreaked his rage on the 
magistrate’^ son to his heart’s content, first with his 
fists, and then with the heavy shoe that lay beside him. 
Meantime, snowballs had rained upon his body and 
head from all directions, increasing his fury; and as 
soon as Xaver no longer struggled he started up, ex- 
claiming with glowing cheeks and upraised fists: 


ONLY A WORD. 


59 


“Wait, wait, you wicked fellows! The doctor in 
Richtberg knows a word, by which he shall turn you all 
into toads and rats, you miserable rascals ! ” 

Xaver had remembered this speech, which he repeated 
to his father, cleverly enlarged with many a false word. 

The abbot listened to the magistrate’s complaint 
very quietly. 

The angry father was no sufficient witness for him, 
yet the matter seemed important enough to send for 
and question Ulrich, though the meal-tide had already 
begun. The Jew had really spoken to his daughter 
about the magic word, and the pupil of the monastery 
had threatened his companions with it. So the investi- 
gation might begin. 

Ulrich was led back to the prison-chamber, where 
some thin soup and bread awaited him, but he touched 
neither. Food and drink disgusted him, and he could 
neither work nor sit still. 

The little bell, which, summoned all the occupants 
of the monastery, was heard at an unusual hour, and 
about vespers the sound of sleigh-bells attracted him to 
the window. The abbot and Father Hieronymus were 
talking in undertones to the magistrate, who was just 
preparing to enter his sleigh. 

They were speaking of him and the doctor, and the 
pupils had just been summoned to bear witness against 
him. No one had told him so, but he knew it, and was 
seized with such anxiety about the doctor, that drops of 
perspiration stood on his brow. 

He was clearly aware that he had mingled his 
teacher’s words with the poacher’s blasphemous sayings, 
and also that he had put the latter into the mouth of 
Ruth’s father. 

5 


6o 


A WORD, 


He was a traitor, a liar, a miserable scoundrel ! 

He wished to go to the abbot and confess all, yet 
dared not, and so the hours stole away until the time 
for the evening mass. 

While in church he strove to pray, not only for him- 
self but for the doctor, but in vain, he could think of 
nothing but the trial, and while kneeling with his hands 
over his eyes, saw the Jew in fetters before him, and 
he himself at the trial in the town-hall. 

At last the mass ended. 

Ulrich rose. Just before him hung the large cruci- 
fix, and the Saviour on the cross, who with his head 
bowed on one side, usually gazed so gently and mourn- 
fully upon the ground, to-day seemed to look at him 
with mingled reproach and accusation. 

In the dormitory, his companions avoided him as if 
he had the plague, but he scarcely noticed it. 

The moonlight and the reflection from the snow 
shone brightly through the little window, but Ulrich 
longed for darkness, and buried his face in the pillows. 

The clock in the steeple struck ten. 

He raised himself and listened to the deep breath- 
ing of the sleepers on his right and left, and the gnaw- 
ing of a mouse under the bed. 

His heart throbbed faster and more anxiously, but 
suddenly seemed to stand still, for a low voice had 
called his name. 

“ Ulrich ! ” it whispered again, and the young count, 
who lay beside him, rose in bed and bent towards him. 

Ulrich had told him about the word, and often in- 
dulged in wishes with him, as he had formerly done 
with Ruth. Philipp now whispered : 

“ They are going to attack the doctor. The abbot 


ONLY A WORD. 


6l 


and magistrate questioned us, as if it were a matter of 
life and death. I kept what I know about the word to 
myself, for I’m sorry for the Jew, but Xaver, spiteful 
fellow, made it appear as if you really possessed the 
spell, and just now he came to me and said his father 
would seize the Jew early to-morrow morning, and then 
he would be tortured. Whether they will hang or burn 
him is the question. His life is forfeited, his father 
said — and the black-visaged rascal rejoiced over it.” 

u Silentium, turbatores /” cried the sleepy voice of 
the monk in charge, and the boys hastily drew back 
into the feathers and were silent. 

The young count soon fell asleep again, but Ulrich 
buried his head still deeper among the pillows; it 
seemed as if he saw the mild, thoughtful face of the 
man, from whom he had received so much affection, 
gazing reproachfully at him ; then the dumb wife 
appeared before his mind, and he fancied her soft hand 
was lovingly stroking his cheeks as usual. Ruth also 
appeared, not in the yellow silk dress, but clad in 
rags of a beggar, and she wept, hiding her face in her 
mother’s lap. 

He groaned aloud. The clock struck eleven. He 
rose and listened. Nothing stirred, and slipping on his 
clothes, he took his shoes in his hand and tried to open 
the window at the head of his bed. It had stood open 
during the day, but the frost fastened it firmly to the 
frame. Ulrich braced his foot against the wall and 
pulled with all his strength, but it resisted one jerk 
after another ; at last it suddenly yielded and flew 
open, making a slight creaking and rattling, but the 
monk on guard did not wake, only murmured softly in 
his sleep. 


A WORD, 


6i 


The boy stood motionless for a time, holding his 
breath, then swung himself upon the parapet and looked 
out. The dormitory was in the second story of the 
monastery, above the rampart, but a huge bank of snow 
rose beside the wall, and this strengthened his courage. 

With hurrying fingers he made the sign of the cross, 
a low : “ Mary, pray for me,” rose from his lips, then 
he shut his eyes and risked the leap. 

There was a buzzing, roaring sound in his ears, his 
mother’s image blended in strange distortion with the 
Jew’s, then an icy sea swallowed him, and it seemed as 
if body and soul were frozen. But this sensation 
overpowered him only a few minutes, then working his 
way out of the mass of snow, he drew on his shoes, and 
dashed as if pursued by a pack of wolves, down the 
mountain, through the ravine, across the heights, and 
finally along the river to the city and the Richtberg. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The magistrate’s horses did not reach the city gate, 
from the monastery, more quickly than Ulrich. 

As soon as the smith was roused from sleep by the 
boy’s knock and recognized his voice, he knew what 
was coming, and silently listened to the lad’s confessions, 
while he himself hurriedly yet carefully took out his 
hidden hoard, filled a bag with the most necessary 
articles, thrust his lightest hammer into his belt, and 
poured water on the glimmering coals. Then, locking 
the door, he sent Ulrich to Hangemarx, with whom he 
had already settled many things ; for Caspar, the jug- 


only a Word. 


63 

gfer, who learned more through his daughters than any 
other man, had come to him the day before, to tell him 
that something was being plotted against the Jew. 

Adam found the latter still awake and at work. He 
was prepared for the danger that threatened him, and 
ready to fly. No word of complaint, not even a hasty 
gesture betrayed the mental anguish of the persecuted 
man, and the smith’s heart melted, as he heard the 
doctor rouse his wife and child from their sleep. 

The terrified moans of the startled wife, and Ruth’s 
loud weeping and curious questions, were soon drowned 
by the lamentations of old Rahel, who wrapped in even 
more kerchiefs than usual, rushed into the sitting-room, 
and while lamenting and scolding in a foreign tongue, 
gathered together everything that lay at hand. She 
had dragged a large chest after her, and now threw in 
candlesticks, jugs, and even the chessmen and Ruth’s 
old doll with a broken head. 

When the third hour after midnight came, the 
doctor was ready for departure. 

Marx’s charcoal sledge, with its little horse, stopped 
before the door. 

This was a strange animal, no larger than a calf, as 
thin as a goat, and in some places woolly, in others as 
bare as a scraped poodle. 

The smith helped the dumb woman into the sleigh, 
the doctor put Ruth in her lap, Ulrich consoled the 
child, who asked him all sorts of questions, but the old 
woman would not part from the chest, and could 
scarcely be induced to enter the vehicle. 

“ You know, across the mountains into the Rhine 
valley — no matter where,” Costa whispered to the 
poacher. 


6 4 


A Word, 


Hangemarx urged on his little horse, and answered, 
not turning to the Israelite, who had addressed him, 
but to Adam, who he thought would understand him 
better than the bookworm: “ It won’t do to go up the 
ravine, without making any circuit. The count’s hounds 
will track us, if they follow. We’ll go first up the high- 
road by the Lautenhof. To-morrow will be a fair-day. 
People will come early from the villages and tread 
down the snow, so the dogs will lose the scent. If it 
would only snow ! ” 

Before the smithy, the doctor held out his hand to 
Adam, saying: “ We part here, friend.” 

“ We’ll go with you, if agreeable to you.” 

“ Consider,” the other began warningly, but Adam 
interrupted him, saying : 

“ I have considered everything ; lost is lost. Ul- 
rich, take the doctor’s sack from his shoulder.” 

For a long time nothing more was said. 

The night was clear and cold ; the men’s footsteps 
fell noiselessly on the soft snow, nothing was heard 
except the creaking of the sledge, and ever and anon 
Elizabeth’s low moaning, or a louder word in the old 
woman’s soliloquy. Ruth had fallen asleep on her 
mother’s lap, and was breathing heavily. 

At Lautenhof a narrow path led through the moun- 
tains deep into the forest. 

As it grew steeper, the snow became knee-deep, 
and the men helped the little horse, which often 
coughed, tossing its thick head up and down, as if 
working a churn. Once, when the poor creature met 
with a very heavy fall, Marx pointed to the green woollen 
scarf on the animal’s neck, and whispered to the smith : 
“Twenty years old, and has the glanders besides.” 


ONLY A WORD. 


65 


The little beast nodded slowly and mournfully, as if 
to say : “ Life is hard ; this will probably be the last 
time I draw a sleigh.” 

The broad, heavy-laden pine-boughs drooped wear- 
ily by the roadside, the gleaming surface of the snow 
stretched in a monotonous sheet of white between the 
trunks of the trees, the tops of the dark rocks beside the 
way bore smooth white caps of loose snow, the forest 
stream was frozen along the edges, only in the centre 
did the water trickle through snow-crystals and sharp 
icicles to the valley. 

So long as the moon shone, flickering rays danced 
and sparkled on the ice and snow, but afterwards only 
the tedious glimmer of the universal snow-pall lighted 
the traveller’s way. 

“ If it would only snow ! ” repeated the charcoal- 
burner. 

The higher they went, the deeper grew the snow, 
the more wearisome the wading and climbing. 

Often, on the doctor’s account, the smith called in 
a low voice, “ Halt ! ” and then Costa approached the 
sleigh and asked : “ How do you feel ?” or said : “ We 
are getting on bravely.” 

Rahel screamed whenever a fox barked in the dis- 
tance, a wolf howled, or an owl flew through the tree- 
tops, brushing the snow from the branches with its 
wings ; but the others also started. Marx alone walk- 
ed quietly and undisturbed beside his little horse’s 
thick head ; he was familiar with all the voices of the 
forest. 

It grew colder towards morning. Ruth woke and 
cried, and her father, panting for breath, asked : “ When 
shall we rest ? ” 


66 


A WORD, 


“ Behind the height ; ten arrow-shots farther,” 
replied the charcoal-burner. 

“ Courage,” whispered the smith. “ Get on the 
sledge, doctor; we’ll push.” 

But Costa shook his head, pointed to the panting 
horse, and dragged himself onward. 

The poacher must have sent his arrows in a strange 
curve, for one quarter of an hour after another slipped 
by, and the top was not yet gained. Meantime it grew 
lighter and lighter, and the charcoal-burner, with in- 
creasing anxiety, ever and anon raised his head, and 
glanced aside. The sky was covered with clouds — the 
light overhead grey, dim, and blended with mist. The 
snow was still dazzling, though it no longer sparkled 
and glittered, but covered every object with the dull 
whiteness of chalk. 

Ulrich kept beside the sledge to push it. When 
Ruth heard him groan, she stroked the hand that 
grasped the edges, this pleased him ; and he smiled. 

When they again stopped, this time on the crest of 
the ridge, Ulrich noticed that the charcoal-burner was 
sniffing the air like a hound, and asked : 

“ What is it, Marxle ?” 

The poacher grinned, as he answered : 

“ It’s going to snow; I smell it.” 

The road now led down towards the valley, and, 
after a short walk, the charcoal-burner said : 

“ We shall find shelter below with Jorg, and a warm 
fire too, you poor women.” 

These were cheering words, and came just at the 
right time, for large snow-flakes began to fill the air, 
and a light breeze drove them into the travellers’ faces. 

“ There ! ” cried Ulrich, pointing to the snow* 


ONLY A WORD. 67 

covered roof of a wooden hut, that stood close before 
them in a clearing on the edge of the forest. 

Every face brightened, but Marx shook his head 
doubtfully, muttering : 

“No smoke, no barking; the place is empty. Jorg 
has gone. At Whitsuntide — how many years ago is 
it ? — the boys left to act as raftsmen, but then he 
stayed here.” 

Reckoning time was not the charcoal-burner’s strong 
point; and the empty hut, the dreary open window- 
casements in the mouldering wooden walls, the holes in 
the roof, through which a quantity of snow had drifted 
into the only room in the deserted house, indicated that 
no human being had sought shelter here for many a 
winter. 

Old Rahel uttered a fresh wail of grief, when she 
saw this shelter; but after the men had removed the 
snow as well as they could, and covered the holes in 
the roof with pine-branches ; when Adam had lighted 
a fire, and the sacks and coverlets were brought in from 
the sledge, and laid on a dry spot to furnish seats for 
the women, fresh courage entered their hearts, and 
Rahel, unasked, dragged herself to the hearth, and set 
the snow-filled pot on the fire. 

“ The nag must have two hours’ rest,” Marx said, 
“ then they could push on and reach the miller in the 
ravine before night. There they would find kind friends, 
for Jacklein had been with him among the ‘peasants.’” 

The snow-water boiled, the doctor and his wife 
rested, Ulrich and Ruth brought wood, which the smith 
had split, to the fire to dry, when suddenly a terrible 
cry of grief rang outside of the hut. 

Costa hastily rose, the children followed, and old 


68 


A WORD, 


Rahel, whimpering, drew the upper kerchief on her head 
over her face. 

The little horse, its tiny legs stretched far apart, was 
lying in the snow by the sledge. Beside it knelt Marx, 
holding the clumsy head on his knee, and blowing with 
his crooked mouth into the animal’s nostrils. The 
creature showed its yellow teeth, and put out its bluish 
tongue as if it wanted to lick him ; then the heavy head 
fell, the dying animal’s eyes started from their sockets, 
its legs grew perfectly stiff, and this time the horse was 
really dead, while the shafts of the sledge vainly thrust 
themselves into the air, like the gaping mouth of a de- 
serted bird. 

No farther progress was possible. The women sat 
trembling in the hut, roasting before the fire, and shiver- 
ing when a draught touched them. Ruth wept for the 
poor little horse, and Marx sat as if utterly crushed be- 
side his old friend’s stiffening body, heeding nothing, 
least of all the snow, which was making him whiter 
than the miller, with whom he had expected to rest that 
evening. The doctor gazed in mute despair at his 
dumb wife, who, with clasped hands, was praying fer- 
vently; the smith pressed his hand upon his brow, 
vainly pondering over what was to be done now, until 
his head ached; while, from the distance, echoed the 
howl of a hungry wolf, and a pair of ravens alighted on 
a white bough beside the little horse, gazing greedily at 
the corpse lying in the snow. 

Meantime, the abbot was sitting in his pleasantly- 
warmed study, which was pervaded by a faint, agree- 
able perfume, gazing now at the logs burning in the 
beautiful marble mantel-piece, and then at the magistrate, 
who had brought him strange tidings. 


ONLY A WORD. 


69 


The prelate’s white woollen morning-robe clung 
closely around his stately figure. Beside him lay, side 
by side, for comparison, two manuscript copies of his 
favorite book, the idyls of Theocritus, which, for his 
amusement, and to excel the translation of Coban 
Hesse, he was turning into Latin verse, as the duties 
of his office gave him leisure. 

The magistrate was standing by the fire-side. He 
was a thick-set man of middle height, with a large head, 
and clever but coarse features, as rudely moulded as if 
they had been carved from wood. He was one of the 
best informed lawyers in the country, and his words 
flowed as smoothly and clearly from his strong lips, as 
if every thought in his keen brain was born fully 
matured and beautifully finished. 

In the farthest corner of the room, awaiting a sign 
from his master, stood the magistrate’s clerk, a little 
man with a round head, and legs like the sickle of the 
waxing or waning moon. He carried under his short 
arms two portfolios, filled with important papers. 

“ He comes from Portugal, and has lived under an 
assumed name ? ” So the abbot repeated, what he had 
just heard. 

“ His name is Lopez, not Costa,” replied the other; 
“ these papers prove it. Give me the portfolio, man ! 
The diploma is in the brown one.” 

He handed a parchment to the prelate, who, after 
reading it, said firmly : 

“ This Jew is a more important person than we sup- 
posed. They are not lavish with such praise in Coim- 
bra. Are you taking good care of the doctor’s books 
Herr Conrad ? I will look at them to-morrow.” 

“They are at your disoosal. These papers. . . 


70 


A WORD. 


“ Leave them, leave them.” 

“ There will be more than enough for the complaint 
without them,” said the magistrate. “ Our town-clerk, 
who though no student is, as you know, a man of much 
experience, shares my opinion.” Then he continued 
pathetically : “ Only he who has cause to fear the law 
hides his name, only he, who feels guilty, flees the 
judge.” 

A subtle smile, that was not wholly free from bitter- 
ness, hovered around the abbot’s lips, for he thought of 
the painful trial and the torture-chamber in the town- 
hall, and no longer saw in the doctor merely the Jew, 
but the humanist and companion in study. 

His glance again fell on the diploma, and while the 
other continued his representations, the prelate stretched 
himself more comfortably in his arm-chair and gazed 
thoughtfully at the ground. Then, as if an idea had 
suddenly occurred to him, he touched his high forehead 
with the tips of his fingers, and suddenly interrupting 
the eager speaker, said : 

“ Father Anselm came to us from Porto five years 
ago, and when there knew every one who understood 
Greek. Go, Gutbub, and tell the librarian to come.” 

The monk soon appeared. 

Tidings of Ulrich’s disappearance and the Jew’s 
flight had spread rapidly through the monastery ; the 
news was discussed in the choir, the school, the stable 
and the kitchen; Father Anselm alone had heard noth- 
ing of the matter, though he had been busy in the 
library before daybreak, and the vexatious incident had 
been eagerly talked of there. 

It was evident, that the elderly man cared little for 
anything that happened in the world, outside of his 


ONLY A WORD. 


7 * 


manuscripts and printing. His long, narrow head 
rested on a thin neck, which did not stand erect, but 
grew out between the shoulders like a branch from the 
stem. His face was grey and lined with wrinkles, like 
pumice-stone, but large bright eyes lent meaning and 
attraction to the withered countenance. 

At first he listened indifferently to the abbot’s story, 
but as soon as the Jew’s name was mentioned, and he 
had read the diploma, as swiftly as if he possessed the 
gift of gathering the whole contents of ten lines at a 
single comprehensive glance, he said eagerly : 

“ Lopez, Doctor Lopez was here ! And we did 
not know it, and have not consulted with him ! Where 
is he ? What are people planning against him ?” 

After he had learned that the Jew had fled, and the 
abbot requested him to tell all he knew about the doc- 
tor, he collected his thoughts and sorrowfully began : 

“To be sure, to be sure; the man committed a 
great offence. He is a great sinner in God’s eyes. 
You know his guilt?” 

“We know everything,” cried the magistrate, with 
a meaning glance at the prelate. Then, as if he sin- 
cerely pitied the criminal, he continued with well- 
feigned sympathy : “ How did the learned man commit 
such a misdeed ? ” 

The abbot understood the stratagem, but Anselm’s 
words could not be recalled, and as he himself desired 
to learn more of the doctor’s history, he asked the 
monk to tell what he knew. 

The librarian, in his curt, dry manner, yet with a 
warmth unusual to him, described the doctor’s great 
learning and brilliant intellect, saying that his father, 
though a Jew, had been in his way an aristocratic man, 


7 * 


A WORD, 


allied with many a noble family, for until the reign of 
King Emanuel, who persecuted the Hebrews, they had 
enjoyed great distinction in Portugal. In those days it 
had been hard to distinguish Jews from Christians. At 
the time of the expulsion a few favored Israelites had 
been allowed to stay, among them the worthy Rodrigo, 
the doctor’s father, who had been the king’s physician 
and was held in high esteem by the sovereign. Lopez 
obtained the highest honors at Coimbra, but instead of 
following medicine, like his father, devoted himself to 
the humanities. 

“There was no need to earn his living — to earn his 
living,” continued the monk, speaking slowly and care- 
fully, and repeating the conclusion of his sentence, as if 
he were in the act of collating two manuscripts, “for 
Rodrigo was one of the wealthiest men in Portugal. 
His son Lopez was rich, very rich in friends, and among 
them were numbered all to whom knowledge was dear. 
Even among the Christians he had many friends. 
Among us — I mean in our library— r he also obtained 
great respect. I owe him many a hint, much aid ; I 
mean in referring me to rare books, and ’ explaining 
obscure passages. When he no longer visited us, 
I missed him sorely. I am not curious; or do you 
think I am ? I am not curious, but I could not 
help inquiring about him, and then I heard very bad 
things. Women are to blame for everything ; of course 
it was a woman again. A merchant from Flanders — 
a Christian — had settled in Porto. The doctor’s fa- 
ther visited his house; but you probably know all 
this ? ” 

“ Of course ! of course ! ” cried the magistrate. 
“ But go on with your story.” 


ONLY A WORD. 


73 

“ Old Doctor Rodrigo was the Netherlander’s physi- 
cian, and closed his eyes on the death-bed. An orphan 
was left, a girl, who had not a single relative in Porto. 
They said — I mean the young doctors and students 
who had seen her — that she was pleasing, very pleasing 
to the eye. But it was not on that account, but be- 
cause she was orphaned and desolate, that the physician 
took the child — I mean the girl.” 

“And reared her as a Jewess?” interrupted the 
magistrate, with a questioning glance. 

“As a Jewess ?” replied the monk, excitedly. “Who 
says so ? He did nothing of the sort. A Christian 
widow educated her in the physician’s country-house, 
not in the city. When the young doctor returned from 
Coimbra, he saw her there more than once — more 
than once; certainly, more often than was good for 
him. The devil had a finger in the matter. I know, 
too, how they were married. Before one Jew and two 
Christian witnesses, they plighted their troth to each 
other, and exchanged rings — rings as if it were a Chris- 
tian ceremony, though he remained a Jew and she a 
Christian. He intended to go to the Netherlands with 
her, but one of the witnesses betrayed them — de- 
nounced them to the Holy Inquisition. This soon in- 
terposed of course, for there it interferes with every- 
thing, and in this case it was necessary; nay more — a 
Christian duty. The young wife was seized in the 
street with her attendant and thrown into prison ; on 
the rack she entirely lost the power of speech. The 
old physician and the doctor were warned in time, and 
kept closely concealed. Through Chamberlain de Sa, 
her uncle — or was it only her cousin? — through de 
Sa the wife regained her liberty, and then I believe all 


74 


A WORD, 


three fled to France — the father, son and wife. But 
no, they must have come here ” 

“ There you have it ! ” cried the magistrate, inter- 
rupting the monk, and glancing triumphantly at the 
prelate. “ An old practitioner scents crime, as a tree- 
frog smells rain. Now, for the first time, I can say with 
certainty : We have him, and the worst punishment is 
too little for his deserts. There shall be an unparalleled 
execution, something wonderful, magnificent, grand! 
You have given me important information, and I thank 
you, Father.” 

“ Then you knew nothing ? ” faltered the librarian ; 
and, raising his neck higher than usual, the vein in the 
centre of his forehead swelled with wrath. 

“ No, Anselme! ” said the abbot. “ But it was your 
duty to speak, as, unfortunately, it was mine to listen. 
Come to me again, by and bye ; I have something to 
say to you.” 

The librarian bowed silently, coldly and proudly 
and without vouchsafing the magistrate a single glance, 
went back, not to his books, but to his cell, where he 
paced up and down a long time, sorrowfully murmuring 
Lopez’s name, striking himself on the mouth, pressing 
his clenched hand to his brow, and at last throwing 
himself on his knees to pray for the Jew, before the 
image of the crucified Redeemer. 

As soon as the monk had left the room, the magis- 
trate exclaimed : 

“ What unexpected aid ! What series of sins lie 
before us ! First the small ones. He had never worn 
the Jews’ badge, and allowed himself to be served by 
Christians, for Caspar’s daughters were often at the 
bouse to help in sewing. A sword was found in his 


l 


ONLY A WORD. 


75 


dwelling, and the J ew, who carries weapons, renounces, 
since he uses self-protection, the aid of the authorities. 
Finally, we know that Lopez used an assumed name. 
Now we come to the great offences. They are divided 
into four parts. He has practised magic spells ; he has 
sought to corrupt a Christian’s son by heresies ; he has 
led a Christian woman into a marriage; and he has — 
I close with the worst — he has reared the daughter of 
a Christian woman, I mean his wife, a Jewess!” 

“ Reared his child a Jewess ? Do you know that 
positively ? ” asked the abbot. 

“She bears the Jewish name of Ruth. What I 
have taken the liberty to make prominent are well 
chosen, clearly-proved crimes, worthy of death. Your 
learning is great, Reverend Abbot, but I know the 
old writers, too. The Emperor Constantius made mar- 
riages between Jews and Christians punishable with 
death. I can show you the passage.” 

The abbot felt that the crime of which the Jew was 
accused was a heavy and unpardonable one, but he re- 
garded only the sin, and it vexed him to see how the 
magistrate’s zeal was exclusively turned against the 
unhappy criminal. So he rose, saying with cold 
hauteur : 

“ Then do your duty.” 

“ Rely upon it. We shall capture him and his 
family to-morrow. The town-clerk is full of zeal too. 
We shall not be able to harm the child, but it must be 
taken from the Jew and receive a Christian education. 
It would be our right to do this, even if both parents 
were Hebrews. You know the Freiburg case. No 
less a personage than the great Ulrich Zasius has de- 
cided, that Jewish children might be baptized without 
6 


?6 


A WORD, 


their father’s knowledge. I beg you to send Father 
Anselm to the town-hall on Saturday as a witness.” 

“ Very well,” replied the prelate, but he spoke with 
so little eagerness, that it justly surprised the magistrate. 
“Well then, catch the Jew; but take him alive. And 
one thing more ! I wish to see and speak to the doc- 
tor, before you torture him.” 

“ I will bring him to you day after to-morrow.” 

“The Nurembergers! the Nurembergers! . . . .” re- 
plied the abbot, shrugging his shoulders. 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ They don’t hang any one till they catch him.” 

The magistrate regarded these words as a challenge 
to put forth every effort for the Jew’s capture, so he 
answered eagerly: “We shall have him, Your Rever- 
ence, we shall surely have him. They are trapped in the 
snow. The sergeants are searching the roads ; I shall 
summon your foresters and mine, and put them under 
Count Frohlinger’s command. It is his duty to aid us. 
What they cannot find with their attendants, squires, 
beaters and hounds, is not hidden in the forest. Your 
blessing, Holy Father, there is no time to lose.” 

The abbot was alone. 

He gazed thoughtfully at the coals in the fireplace, 
recalling everything he had just seen and heard, while 
his vivid power of imagination showed him the learned, 
unassuming man, who had spent long years in quiet 
seclusion, industriously devoting himself to the pursuit of 
knowledge. A slight feeling of envy stole into his heart ; 
how rarely he himself was permitted to pursue undis- 
turbed, and without interruption, the scientific subjects, 
in which alone he found pleasure. 

He was vexed with himself, that he could feel so 


ONLY A WORD. 


77 


little anger against a criminal, whose guilt was deserving 
of death, and reproached himself for lukewarmness. 
Then he remembered that the Jew had sinned for love, 
and that to him who has loved much, much should 
be forgiven. Finally, it seemed a great boon, that he 
was soon to be permitted to make the acquaintance of 
the worthy doctor from Coimbra. Never had the zeal- 
ous magistrate appeared so repulsive as to-day, and 
when he remembered how the crafty man had outwitted 
poor Father Anselm in his presence, he felt as if he had 
himself committed an unworthy deed. And yet, yet — 
the Jew could not be saved, and had deserved what 
threatened him. 

A monk summoned him, but the abbot did not 
wish to be disturbed, and ordered that he should be 
left an hour alone. 

He now took in his hand a volume he called 
the mirror of his soul, and in which he noted many 
things “ for the confession,” that he desired to deter- 
mine to his own satisfaction. To-day he wrote : 

“ It would be a duty to hate a Jew and criminal, 
zealously to persecute what Holy Church has con- 
demned. Yet I cannot do so. Who is the magistrate, 
and what are Father Anselm and this learned doctor! 
The one narrow-minded, only familiar with the little 
world he knows and in which he lives, the others 
divinely-gifted, full of knowledge, rulers in the wide 
domain of thought. And the former outwits the latter, 
who show themselves children in comparison with him. 
How Anselm stood before him ! The deceived child 
was great, the clever man small. What men call clever- 
ness is only small-minded persons’ skill in life ; simplicity 
is peculiar to the truly great man, because petty affairs 
6 


?8 


A WORD, 


are too small for him, and his eye does not count the 
grains of dust, but looks upward, and has a share in the 
infinitude stretching before us. Jesus Christ was gentle 
as a child and loved children, he was the Son of God, 
yet voluntarily yielded himself into the hands of men. 
The greatest of great men did not belong to the ranks 
of the clever. Blessed are the meek, He said. I under- 
stand those words. He is meek, whose soul is open, 
clear and pure as a mirror, and the greatest philoso- 
phers, the noblest minds I have met in life and history 
were also meek. The brute is clever ; wisdom is the 
cleverness of the noble-minded. We must all follow 
the Saviour, and he among us, who unites wisdom to 
meekness, will come nearest to the Redeemer.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

Marx had gone out to reconnoitre in a more cheer- 
ful mood, for the doctor had made good the loss 
sustained in the death of his old nag, and he returned 
at noon with good news. 

A wood-carrier, whom he met on the high-road, had 
told him where Jorg, the charcoal-burner, lived. 

The fugitives could reach his hut before night, and 
in so doing approach nearer the Rhine valley. 

Everything was ready for departure, but old Rahel 
objected to travelling further. She was sitting on a 
stone before the hut, for the smoke in the narrow room 
oppressed her breathing, and it seemed as if terror had 
robbed her of her senses. Gazing into vacancy with 
wild eyes and chattering teeth, she tried to make cakes 


ONLY A WORD. 


/9 

and mould dumplings out of the snow, which she prob- 
ably took for flour. She neither heard the doctor’s call 
nor saw his wife beckon, and when the former grasped 
her to compel her to rise, uttered a loud shriek. At last 
the smith succeeded in persuading her to sit down on 
the sledge, and the party moved forward. 

Adam had harnessed himself to the front of the 
vehicle. Marx went to and fro, pushing when neces- 
sary. The dumb woman waded through the snow by 
her husband’s side. “ Poor wife !” he said once ; but 
she pressed his arm closer, looking up into his eyes as 
if she wished to say : “ Surely I shall lack nothing, if 
only you are spared to me ! ” 

She enjoyed his presence as if it were a favor 
granted by destiny, but only at chance moments, for 
she could not banish her fear for him, and of the pursuers 
— her dread of uncertainty and wandering. 

If snow rattled from a pine-tree, if she noticed 
Lopez turn his head, or if old Rahel uttered a moan, 
she shuddered; and this was not unperceived by her 
husband, who told himself that she had every reason to 
look forward to the next few hours with grave anxiety. 

Each moment might bring imprisonment to him 
and all, and if they discovered — if it were disclosed 
who he, who Elizabeth was. . . . 

Ulrich and Ruth brought up the rear, saying little 
to each other. 

At first the path ascended again, then led down to 
the valley. It had stopped snowing long before, and 
the farther they went the lighter the drifts became. 

They had journeyed in this way for two hours, when 
Ruth’s strength failed, and she stood still with tearful, 
imploring eyes. The charcoal-burner saw it, and growled: 


So 


A WORD, 


“Come here, little girl; I’ll carry you to the 
sleigh.” 

“ No, let me,” Ulrich eagerly interposed. 

And Ruth exclaimed : 

“ Yes, you, you shall carry me.” 

Marx grasped her around the waist, lifted her high 
into the air, and placed her in the boy’s arms. She 
clasped her hands around his neck, and as he walked 
on pressed her fresh, cool cheek to his. It pleased him, 
and the thought entered his mind that he had been 
parted from her a long time, and it was delightful to 
have her again. 

His heart swelled more and more ; he felt that he 
would rather have Ruth than everything else in the 
world, and he drew her towards him as closely as if an in- 
visible hand were already out-stretched to take her from 
him. 

To-day her dear, delicate little face was not pale, 
but glowed crimson after the long walk through the 
frosty, winter air. She was glad to have Ulrich clasp 
her so firmly, so she pressed her cheek closer to his, 
loosened her fingers from his neck, caressingly stroked 
his face with her cold hand, and murmured : 

“You are kind, Ulrich, and I love you !” 

It sounded so tender and loving, that Ulrich’s heart 
melted, for no one had spoken to him so since his 
mother went away. 

He felt strong and joyous, Ruth did not seem at all 
heavy, and when she again clasped her hands around 
his neck, he said : “ I should like to carry you so 
always.” 

Ruth only nodded, as if the wish pleased her, but he 
continued ; 


ONLY A WORD. 


Si 


“ In the monastery I had no one, who was very 
kind to me, for even Lips, well, he was a count — 
everybody is kind to you. You don’t know what it is, 
to be all alone, and have to struggle against every one. 
When I was in the monastery, I often wished that I 
was* lying under the earth; now I don’t want to die, 
and we will stay with you — father told me so — and 
everything will be just as it was, and I shall learn no 
more Latin, but become a painter, or smith-artificer, 
or anything else, for aught I care, if I’m only not obliged 
to leave you again.” 

He felt Ruth raise her little head, and press her soft 
lips on his forehead just over his eyes; then he lowered 
the arms in which she rested, kissed her mouth, and 
said: “Now it seems as if I had my mother back 
again ! ” 

“Does it?” she asked, with sparkling eyes. “ Now 
put me down. I am well again, and want to run.” 

So saying, she slipped to the ground, and he did not 
detain her. 

Ruth now walked stoutly on beside the lad, and 
made him tell her about the bad boys in the monastery, 
Count Lips, the pictures, the monks, and his own 
flight, until, just as it grew dark, they reached the goal 
of their walk. 

Jorg,the charcoal-burner, received them, and opened 
his hut, but only to go away himself, for though willing 
to give the fugitives shelter and act against the authori- 
ties, he did not wish to be present, if the refugees should 
be caught. Caught with them, hung with them ! He 
knew the proverb, and went down to the village, with 
the florins Adam gave him. 

There was a hearth for cooking in the hut, and two 


82 


A WORD, 


rooms, one large and one small, for in summer the char- 
coal-burners’ wives and children live with them. The 
travellers needed rest and refreshment, and might have 
found both here, had not fear embittered the food and 
driven sleep from their weary eyes. 

Jorg was to return early the next morning With a 
team of horses. This was a great consolation. Old 
Rahel, too, had regained her self-control, and was sound 
asleep. 

The children followed her example, and at midnight 
Elizabeth slept too. 

Marx lay beside the hearth, and from his crooked 
mouth came a strange, snoring noise, that sounded like 
the last note of an organ-pipe, from which the air is 
expiring. 

Hours after all the others were asleep, Adam and 
the doctor still sat on a sack of straw, engaged in ear- 
nest conversation. 

Lopez had told his friend the story of his happiness 
and sorrow, closing with the words : 

“ So you know who we are, and why we left our 
home. You are giving me your future, together with 
many other things ; no gift can repay you ; but first of 
all, it was due you that you should know my past.” 

Then, holding out his hand to the smith, he asked : 
“ You are a Christian ; will you still cleave to me, after 
what you have heard ? ” 

Adam silently pressed the Jew’s right hand, and 
after remaining lost in thought for a time, said in a hol- 
low tone : 

“If they catch you, and — Holy Virgin — if they 
discover .... Ruth .... She is not really a Jew’s 
child .... have you reared her as a Jewess ?” 


ONLY A WORD. 


83 


“ No; only as a good human child.” 

“ Is she baptized ?” 

Lopez answered this question also in the negative. 
The smith shook his head disapprovingly, but the 
doctor said : “ She knows more about Jesus, than many 
a Christian child of her age. When she is grown up, 
she will be free to follow either her mother or her 
father.” 

“ Why have you not become a Christian yourself ? 
Forgive the question. Surely you are one at heart.” 

“ That, that . . . you see, there are things . . . Suppose 
that every male scion of your family, from generation 
to generation, for many hundred years, had been a 
smith, and now a boy should grow up, who said : ‘ I 

despise your trade ?’ ” 

“ If Ulrich should say : ‘ I wish to be an artist it 
would be agreeable to me.” 

“ Even if smiths were persecuted like us Jews, and 
he ran from your guild to another out of fear ?” 

“No — that would be base, and can scarcely be 
compared with your case; for see — you are acquainted 
with everything, even what is called Christianity ; nay, 
the Saviour is dear to you ; you have already told me 
so. Well then ! Suppose you were a foundling and 
were shown our faith and yours, and asked for which 
you would decide, which would you choose ?” 

“We pray for life and peace, and where peace 
exists, love cannot be lacking, and yet ! Perhaps I 
might decide for yours.” 

“ There you have it.” 

“ No, no ! We have not done with this question so 
speedily. See, I do not grudge you your faith, nor do I 
wish to disturb it. The child must believe, that all 


8 4 


A WORD, 


its parents do and require of him is right, but the stran- 
ger sees with different, keener eyes, than the son and 
daughter. You occupy a filial relation towards your 
Church — I do not. I know the doctrine of Jesus 
Christ, and if I had lived in Palestine in his time, should 
have been one of the first to follow the Master, but 
since, from those days to the present, much human 
work has mingled with his sublime teachings. This too 
must be dear to you, for it belongs to your parents — 
but it repels me. I have lived, labored and watched 
all night for the truth, and were I now to come before 
the baptismal font and say ‘ yes ’ to everything the 
priests ask, I should be a liar.” 

“ They have caused you bitter suffering ; tortured your 
wife, driven you and your family from your home . . . .” 

“ I have borne all that patiently,” cried the doctor, 
deeply moved. “ But there are many other sins now 
committed against me and mine, for which there is no 
forgiveness. I know the great Pagans and their works. 
Their need of love extends only to the nation, to which 
they belong, not to humanity. Unselfish justice, is to 
them the last thing man owes his fellow-man. Christ 
extended love to all nations, His heart was large enough 
to love all mankind. Human love, the purest and 
fairest of virtues, is the sublime gift, the noble heritage, 
he left behind to his brothers in sorrow. My heart, 
the poor heart under this black doublet, this heart 
was created for human love, this soul thirsted, with all 
its powers, to help its neighbors and lighten their sor- 
rows. To exercise human love is to be good, but 
they no longer know it, and what is worse, a thousand 
times worse, they constantly destroy in me and mine 
the desire to be good, good in th ' sense of their own 


ONLY A WORD. 


8 5 


Master. Wordly wealth is trash — to be rich the 
poorest happiness. .Yet the Jew is not forbidden to 
strive for this, they take scarcely half his gains ; — nor 
can they deny him the pursuit of the pleasures of 
the intellect — pure knowledge — for our minds are 
not feebler or more idle, and soar no less boldly than 
theirs. The prophets came from the East! But 
the happiness of the soul — the right to exercise char- 
ity is denied to us. It is a part of charity for each man 
to regard his neighbor as himself — to feel for him, 
as it were, with his own heart — to lighten his burdens, 
minister unto him in his sorrows, and to gladden 
his happiness. This the Christian denies the Jew. Your 
love ceases when you meet me and mine, and if I 
sought to put myself on an equality with the Christian, 
from the pure desire to satisfy his Master’s most beauti- 
tiful lesson, what would be my fate? The Jew is not 
permitted to be good. Not to be good! Whoever 
imposes that upon his brother, commits a sin for which 
I know no forgiveness. And if Jesus Christ should 
return to earth and see the pack that hunts us, surely 
He, who was human love incarnate, would open His 
arms wide, wide to us, and ask : ‘ Who are these 
apostles of hate ! I know them not ! ’ ” 

The doctor paused, for the door had opened, and he 
rose with flushed face to look into the adjoining room ; 
but the smith held him back, saying : 

“ Stay, stay ! Marx went out into the open air. 
Ah, sir ! no doubt your words are true, but were they 
Jews- who crucified the Saviour?” 

“ And this crime is daily avenged,” replied Lopez. 
“ How many wicked, how many low souls, who basely 
squander divine gifts to obtain worthless pelf, there are 


86 


A WORD, 


among my people! More than half of them are 
stripped of honor and dignity on your altar of ven- 
geance, and thrust into the arms of repulsive avarice. 
And this, all this .... But enough of these things ! 
They rouse my inmost soul to wrath, and I have other 
matters to discuss with you.” 

The scholar now began to speak to the smith, like a 
dying man, about the future of his family, told him 
where he had concealed his small property, and did not 
hide the fact, that his marriage had not only drawn 
upon him the persecution of the Christians, but the 
curse of his co-religionists. He took it upon himself to 
provide for Ulrich, as if he were his own child, should 
any misfortune befall the smith ; and Adam promised, 
if he remained alive and at liberty, to do the same for 
the doctor’s wife and daughter. 

Meantime, a conversation of a very different nature 
was held before the hut. 

The poacher was sitting by the fire, when the door 
opened, and his name was called. He turned in alarm, 
but soon regained his composure, for it was Jorg who 
beckoned, and then drew him into the forest. 

Marx expected no good news, yet he started when 
his companion said : 

“ I know now, who the man is you have brought. 
He’s a Jew. Don’t try to humbug me. The constable 
from the city has come to the village. The man, who 
captures the Israelite, will get fifteen florins. Fifteen 
florins, good money. The magistrate will count it, all 
on one board, and the vicar says ” 

“ I don’t care much for your priests,” replied Marx. 
“I am from Weinsberg, and have found the Jew a 
worthy man. No one shall touch him.” 


ONLY A WORD. 


87 


“ A Jew, and a good man ! ” cried J drg, laughing. 
“If you won’t help, so much the worse for you. You’ll 
risk your neck, and the fifteen florins. . . . Will you go 
shares ? Yes or no ? ” 

“Heaven’s thunder!” murmured the poacher, his 
crooked mouth watering. “ How much is half of fif- 
teen florins ? ” 

“ About seven, I should say.” 

“ A calf and a pig — ” 

“A swine for the Jew, that will suit. You’ll keep 
him here in the trap.” 

“I can’t, Jorg; by my soul, I can’t! Let me 
alone!” 

“Very well, for aught I care; but the legal gentle- 
men. The gallows has waited for you long enough ! ” 

“ I can’t ; I can’t. I’ve been an honest man all my 
life, and the smith Adam and his dead father have 
shown me many a kindness.” 

“ Who means the smith any harm ? ” 

“ The receiver is as bad as the thief. If they catch 
him ” 

“ He’ll be put in the stocks for a week. That’s the 
worst that can befall him.” 

“ No, no. Let me alone, or I’ll tell Adam what 
you’re plotting . , . 

“Then I’ll denounce you first, you gallows’ fruit, 
you rogue, you poacher. They’ve suspected you a long 
time! Will you change your mind now, you blockhead?” 

“Yes, yes; but Ulrich is here too, and the boy is as 
dear to me as my own child.” 

“ I’ll come here later, say that no vehicle can be 
had, and take him away with me. When it’s all over, 
I’ll let him go.” 


83 


A WORD, 


“ Then I’ll keep him. He already helps me as 
much, as if he were a grown man. Oh, dear, dear! 
The Jew, the gentle man, and the poor women, and 
the little girl, Ruth . . . 

“Big Jews and little Jews, nothing more. You’ve 
told me yourself, how the Hebrews were persecuted in 
your dead father’s day. So we’ll go shares. There’s a 
light in the room still. You’ll detain them. Count 
Frohlinger has been at his hunting-box since last even- 
ing. If they insist on moving forward, guide them to 
the village.” 

“ And I’ve been an honest man all my life,” whined 
the poacher, and then continued, threateningly : “If 
you harm a hair on Ulrich’s head . . . 

“Fool that you are! I’ll willingly leave the big 
feeder to you. Go in now, then I’ll come and fetch 
the boy. There’s money at stake — fifteen florins!” 

Fifteen minutes after, Jorg entered the hut. 

The smith and the doctor believed the charcoal- 
burner, when he told them that all the vehicles in the 
village were in use, but he would find one elsewhere. 
They must let the boy go with him, to enquire at the 
farm-houses in another village. Somebody would 
doubtless be found to risk his horses. The lad looked 
like a young nobleman, and the peasants would take 
earnest-money from him. If he, Jorg, should show 
them florins, it would get him into a fine scrape. The 
people knew he was as poor as a beggar. 

The smith asked the poacher’s opinion, and the 
latter growled : 

“That will, doubtless, be a good plan.” 

He said no more, and when Adam held out his 
hand to the boy, and kissed him on the forehead, and 


ONLY A WORD. 


89 


the doctor bade him an affectionate farewell, Marx 
called himself a J udas, and would gladly have flung the 
tempting florins to the four winds, but it was too late. 

The smith and Lopez heard him call anxiously to 
Jorg : “ Take good care of the boy ! ” And when Adam 
patted him on the shoulder, saying: “You are a faith- 
ful fellow, Marx ! ” he could have howled like a mastiff 
and revealed all; but it seemed as if he again felt the 
rope around his neck, so he kept silence. 


CHAPTER X. 

The grey daw'll was already glimmering, yet neither 
the expected vehicle nor Jorg had come. Old Rahel, 
usually an early riser, was sleeping as soundly as if she 
had to make up the lost slumber of ten nights ; but the 
smith’s anxiety would no longer allow him to remain in 
the close room. Ruth followed him into the open air, 
and when she timidly touched him — for there had al- 
ways been something unapproachable to her in the 
silent man’s gigantic figure — he looked at her from 
head to foot, with strange, questioning sympathy, and 
then asked suddenly, with a haste unusual to him : 

“ Has your father told you about Jesus Christ ?” 

“ Often ! ” replied Ruth. 

“ And do you love Him ?” 

“ Dearly. Father says He loved all children, and 
called them to Him.” 

“ Of course, of course ! ” replied the smith, blushing 
with shame for his own distrust. 

The doctor did not follow the others, and as soon 


9 ° 


A WORD, 


as his wife saw that they were alone, she beckoned to 
him. 

Lopez sat down on the couch beside her, and took 
her hand. The slender fingers trembled in his clasp, 
and when, with loving anxiety, he drew her towards 
him, he felt the tremor of her delicate limbs, while her 
eyes expressed bitter suffering and terrible dread. 

“ Are you afraid ? ” he asked, tenderly. 

Elizabeth shuddered, threw her arms passionately 
around his neck, and nodded assent. 

“The wagon will convey us to the Rhine Valley, 
please God, this very day, and there we shall be safe,” 
he continued, soothingly. But she shook her head, her 
features assuming an expression of indifference and 
contempt. Lopez understood how to read their mean- 
ing, and asked : “ So it is not the bailiffs you fear ; some- 
thing else is troubling you ? ” 

She nodded again, this time still more eagerly, drew 
out the crucifix, which she had hitherto kept concealed 
under her coverlid, showed it to him, then pointed up- 
ward towards heaven, lastly to herself and him, and 
shrugged her shoulders with an air of deep, mournful 
renunciation. 

“You are thinking of the other world,” said Lopez; 
then, fixing his eyes on the ground, he continued, in a 
lower tone : “ I know you are tortured by the fear of 
not meeting me there.” 

“ Yes,” she gasped, with a great effort, pressing her 
forehead against his shoulder. 

A hot tear fell on the doctor’s hand, and he felt as 
if his own heart was weeping with his beloved, anxious 
wife. 

He knew that this thought had often poisoned her 


ONLY A WORD. 


9 1 


life and, full of tender sympathy, turned her beautiful 
face towards him and pressed a long kiss on her closed 
eyes, then said, tenderly : 

“ You are mine, I am yours, and if there is a life 
beyond the grave, and an eternal justice, the dumb will 
speak as they desire, and sing wondrous songs with the 
angels; the sorrowful will again be happy there. We 
will hope, we will both hope ! Do you remember how 
I read Dante aloud to you, and tried to explain his 
divine creation, as we sat on the bench by the fig-tree. 
The sea roared below us, and our hearts swelled higher 
than its storm-lashed waves. How soft was the air, 
how bright the sunshine ! This earth seemed doubly 
beautiful to you and me as, led by the hand of the 
divine seer and singer, we descended shuddering to the 
nether world. There the good and noble men of an- 
cient times walked in a flowery meadow, and among 
them the poet beheld in solitary grandeur — do you 
still remember how the passage runs ? ‘ E solo in 

parte vidi 7 Saladino.' Among them he also saw the 
Moslem Saladin, the conqueror of the Christians. If 
any one possessed the key of the mysteries of the other 
world, Elizabeth, it was Dante. He assigned a lofty 
place to the pagan, who was a true man — a man with 
a pure mind, a zeal for goodness and right, and I think 
I shall have a place there too. Courage, Elizabeth, 
courage ! ” 

A beautiful smile had illumined the wife’s features, 
while she was reminded of the happiest hours of her 
life, but when he paused, gazed into her eyes, and 
clasped her right hand in his, she was seized with an 
intense longing to pray once, only once, with him to 
the Saviour so, drawing her fingers from his, she pressed 
7 


9 2 


A WORD, 


the image of the Crucified One to her breast with het 
left hand, pleading with mute motions of her lips, intel- 
ligible to him alone, and with ardent entreaty in her 
large, tearful eyes : “ Pray, pray with me, pray to the 
Saviour.” 

Lopez was greatly agitated ; his heart beat faster, 
and a strong impulse urged him to start up, cry “ no,” 
and not allow himself to be moved, by an affectionate 
weakness, into bowing his manly soul before one, 
who, to him, was no more than human. 

The noble figure of the crucified Saviour, carved by 
an artist’s hand in ivory, hung from an ebony cross, and 
as he thrust the image back, intending to turn proudly 
away, he gazed at the face and found there only pain, 
quiet endurance, and touching sorrow. Ah, his own 
heart had often bled, as the pure brow of this poor, per- 
secuted, tortured saint bled beneath its crown of thorns. 
To defy this silent companion in suffering, was no manly 
deed — to pay homage, out of love, to Him, who had 
brought love into the world, seemed to possess a sweet, 
ensnaring charm — so he clasped his slender hands closely 
around his dumb wife’s fingers, pressed his dark curls 
against Elizabeth’s fair hair, and both, for the first and 
last time, repeated together a mute, fervent prayer. 

Before the hut, and surrounded by the forest, was a 
large clearing, where two roads crossed. 

Adam, Marx and Ruth had gazed first down one 
and then the other, to look for the wagon, but nothing 
was to be seen or heard. As, with increasing anxiety, 
they turned back to the first path, the poacher grew 
restless. His crooked mouth twisted to and fro in 
strange contortions, not a muscle of his coarse face was 
still, and this looked so odd and yet so horrible, that 


ONLY A WORD. 93 

Ruth could not help laughing, and the smith asked 
what ailed him. 

Marx made no reply ; his ear had caught the distant 
bay of a dog, and he knew what the sound meant. 

Work at the anvil impairs the hearing, and the smith 
did not notice the approaching peril, and repeated: 
“ What ails you, man ? ” 

“ I am freezing,” replied the charcoal-burner, cower- 
ing, with a piteous expression. 

Ruth heard no more of the conversation, she had 
stopped and put her hand to her ear, listening with head 
bent forward, to the noises in the distance. 

Suddenly she uttered a low cry, exclaiming : 
“ There’s a dog barking, Meister Adam, I hear it.” 

The smith turned pale and shook his head, but she 
cried earnestly: “Believe me; I hear it. Now it’s 
barking again.” 

Adam too, now heard a strange noise in the forest- 

With lightning speed he loosened the hammer in his 
belt, took Ruth by the hand, and ran up the clearing 
with her. 

Meantime, Lopez had compelled old Rahel to 

rise. 

Everything must be ready, when Ulrich returned. 

In his impatience he had gone to the door, and 
when he saw Adam hurrying up the glade with the 
child, ran anxiously to meet them, thinking that some 
accident had happened to Ulrich. 

“ Back, back ! ” shouted the smith, and Ruth, releas- 
ing her hand from his, also motioned and shrieked : 
“ Back, back ! ” 

The doctor obeyed the warning, and stopped ; but 
he had scarcely turned, when several dogs appeared at 
7 


94 


A WORD, 


the mouth of the ravine through which the party had 
come the day before, and directly after Count Frohlinger, 
on horseback, burst from the thicket. 

The nobleman sat throned on his spirited charger, 
like the sun -god Siegfried. His fair locks floated dis- 
hevelled around his head, the steam rising from the 
dripping steed hovered about him in the fresh winter 
air like a light cloud. He had opened and raised his 
arms, and holding the reins in his left hand, swung his 
hunting spear with the right. On perceiving Lopez, a 
clear, joyous, exultant “Hallo, Halali!” rang from his 
bearded lips. 

To-day Count Frohlinger was not hunting the stag, 
but special game, a Jew. 

The chase led to the right cover, and how well the 
hounds had done, how stoutly Emir, his swift hunter, 
had followed. 

This was a morning’s work indeed ! 

“ Hallo, Halali ! ” he shouted exultingly again, and 
ere the fugitives had escaped from the clearing, reached 
the doctor’s side, exclaiming : 

“ Here is my game ; to your knees, Jew ! ” 

The count had far outstripped his attendants, and 
was entirely alone. 

As Lopez stood still with folded arms, paying no 
heed to his command, he turned the spear, to strike 
him with the handle. 

Then, for the first time in many years, the old fury 
awoke in Adam’s heart ; and rushing upon the count 
like a tiger, he threw his powerful arms around his 
waist, and ere he was aware of the attack, hurled him 
from his horse, set his knee on his breast, snatched the 
hammer from his belt, and with a mighty blow struck 


ONLY A WORD. 


95 


the dog that attacked him, to the earth. Then lie again 
swung the iron, to crush the head of his hated foe. 

But Lopez would not accept deliverance at such a 
price, and cried in a tone of passionate entreaty : 

“ Let him go, Adam, spare him.” 

As he spoke, he clung to the smith’s arm, and when 
the latter tried to release himself from his grasp, said 
earnestly : 

“We will not follow their example !” 

“ Again the hammer whizzed high in the air, and 
again the Jew clung to the smith’s arm, this time ex- 
claiming imperiously: 

“ Spare him, if you are my friend ! ” 

What was his strength in comparison with Adam’s ! 
Yet as the hammer rose for the third time, he again 
strove to prevent the terrible deed, seizing the infuriated 
man’s wrist, and gasping, as in the struggle he fell on 
his knees beside the count : “ Think of Ulrich ! This 
man’s son was the only one, the only one in the whole 
monastery, who stood by Ulrich, your child — in the 
monastery — he was — his friend — among so many. 
Spare him — Ulrich ! For Ulrich’s sake, spare him ! ” 

During this struggle the smith had held the count 
down with his left hand, and defended himself against 
Lopez with the right. 

One jerk, and the hand upraised for murder was free 
again — but he did not use it. His friend’s last words 
had paralyzed him. 

“ Take it,” he said in a hollow tone, giving the ham- 
mer to the doctor. 

The latter seized it, and rising joyously, laid his 
hand on the shoulder of the smith, who was still kneel- 


9 6 


A WORD, 


ing on the count’s breast, and said beseechingly : “ Let 
that suffice. The man is only . . . . ” 

He went no farther — a gurgling, piercing cry ol 
pain escaped his lips, and pressing one hand to his 
breast, and the other to his brow, he sank on the snow 
beside the stump of a giant pine. 

A squire dashed from the forest — the archer, to 
whom this noble quarry had fallen a victim, appeared 
in the clearing, holding aloft the cross-bow from which 
he had sent the bolt. His arrow was fixed in the doc- 
tor’s breast; alas, the man had only sent the shaft, to 
save his fallen master from the hammer in the Jew’s 
hand. 

Count Frohlinger rose, struggling for breath; his 
hand sought his hunting-knife, but in the fall it had 
slipped from its sheath and was lying in the snow. 

Adam supported his dying friend in his arms, Ruth 
ran weeping to the hut, and before the nobleman had 
fully collected his thoughts, the squire reached his side, 
and young Count Lips, riding a swift bay-horse, dashed 
from the forest, closely followed by three mounted 
huntsmen. 

When the attendants saw their master on foot, they 
too sprang from their saddles, Lips did the same, and 
an eager interchange of question and answer began 
among them. 

The nobleman scarcely noticed his son, but greeted 
with angry words the man who had shot the Jew. 
Then, deeply excited, he hoarsely ordered his attend- 
ants to bind the smith, who made no resistance, but 
submitted to everything like a patient child. 

Lopez no longer needed his arms. 

The dumb wife sat on the stump, with her dying 


ONLY A WORD. 


97 


husband resting on her lap. She had thrown her arms 
around the bleeding form, and the feet hung limply 
down, touching the snow. 

Ruth, sobbing bitterly, crouched on the ground by 
her mother’s side, and old Rahel, who had entirely re- 
gained her self-control, pressed a cloth, wet with wine, 
on his forehead. 

The young count approached the dying Jew. His 
father slowly followed, drew the boy to his side, and 
said in a low, sad tone : 

“1 am sorry for the man ; he saved my life.” 

The wounded man opened his eyes, saw Count 
Frohlinger, his son and the fettered smith, felt his wife’s 
tears on his brow, and heard Ruth’s agonized weeping. 
A gentle smile hovered around his pale lips, and when 
he tried to raise his head Elizabeth helped him, pressing 
it gently to her breast. 

The feeble lips moved and Lopez raised his eyes to 
her face, as if to thank her, saying in a low voice : 
“The arrow — don’t touch it ... . Elizabeth — Ruth, 
we have clung together faithfully, but now — I shall 
leave you alone, I must leave you.” He paused, a 
shadow clouded his eyes, and the lids slowly fell. But 
he soon raised them again, and fixing his glance stead- 
ily on the count, said : 

“ Hear me, my Lord ; a dying man should be 
heard, even if he is a Jew. See ! This is my wife, and 
this my child. They are Christians. They will soon 
be alone in the world, deserted, orphaned. The smith 
is their only friend. Set him free; they — they, they 
will need a protector. My wife is dumb, dumb .... 
alone in the world. She can neither beseech nor de- 
mand. Set Adam free, for the sake of your Saviour, 


9 S 


A WORD, 


your son, free — yes, free. A wide, .wide space must 
lie between you ; he must go away with them, far away. 
Set him free ! I held his arm with the hammer .... 
You know — with the hammer. Set him free. My 
death — death atones for everything.” 

Again his voice failed, and the count, deeply moved, 
looked irresolutely now at him, now at the smith. 
Lips’s eyes filled with tears ; and as he saw his father 
delay in fulfilling the dying man’s last wish, and a glance 
from the dim eyes met his, he pressed closer to the 
noble, who stood struggling with many contending 
emotions, and whispered, weeping • 

“ My Lord and Father, my Lord and Father, to- 
morrow will be Christmas. For Christ’s sake, for love 
of me, grant his request: release Ulrich’s father, set 
him free! Do so, my noble Father; I want no other 
Christmas gift.” 

Count Frohlinger’s heart also overflowed, and when, 
raising his tear-dimmed eyes, he saw Elizabeth’s deep 
grief stamped on her gentle features, and beheld reclin- 
ing on her breast, the mild, beautiful face of the dying 
man, it seemed as if he saw before him the sorrowful 
Mother of God — and to-morrow would be Christmas. 
Wounded pride was silent, he forgot the insult he had 
sustained, and cried in a voice as loud, as if he wished 
every word to reach the ear now growing dull in death : 

“ I thank you for your aid, man. Adam is free, 
and may go with your wife and child wherever he lists. 
My word upon it ; you can close your eyes in peace ! ” 

Lopez smiled again, raised his hand as if in grati- 
tude, then let it fall upon his child’s head, gazed lov- 
ingly at Ruth for the last time, and murmured in a low 
tone: 


ONLY A WORD. 


99 


“ Lift my head a little higher, Elizabeth.” When 
she had obeyed his wish, he gazed earnestly into her 
face, whispered softly : “ A dreamless sleep — reanimated 
to new forms in the endless circle. No! — Do you 
see, do you hear .... ‘‘Solo in parte ’ .... with you — 
with you .... Oh, oh! — the arrow — draw the arrow 
from the wound. Elizabeth, Elizabeth — it aches. 
Well — well — how miserable we were, and yet, yet . . . 
You — you — I — we — we know, what happiness is. 
You — I . . . . Forgive me! I forgive, forgive . . . .” 

The dying man’s hand fell from his child’s head, his 
eyes closed, but the pleasant smile with which he had 
perished, hovered around his lips, even in death. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Count Frohlinger added a low “ amen ” to the 
last words of the dying man, then approached the 
widow, and in the kindly, cordial manner natural to him, 
strove to comfort her. 

Finally he ordered his men, to loose the smith’s 
bonds, and instantly guide him to the frontier with the 
woman and child. He also spoke to Adam, but said 
only a few words, not cheery ones as usual, but grave 
and harsh in purport. 

They were a command to leave the country without 
delay, and never return to his home again. 

The Jew’s corpse was laid on a bier formed of pine* 
branches, and the bearers lifted it on their shoulders. 

Ruth clung closely to her mother, both trembling 
like leaves in the wind, while he who was dearest to 


lOO 


A WORD, 


them on earth was borne away, but only the child 
could weep. 

The men, whom Count Frohlinger had left behind 
as a guard, waited patiently with the smith for his son’s 
return until noon, then they urged departure, and the 
party moved forward. 

Not a word was spoken, till the travellers stopped 
before the charcoal-burner’s house. 

Jorg was in the city, but his wife said that the boy 
had been there, and had gone back to the forest an hour 
before. The tavern could accommodate a great many 
people, she added, and they could wait for him there. 

The fugitives followed this advice, and after Adam 
had seen the women provided with shelter, he again 
sought the scene of the misfortune, and waited there 
for the boy until night. 

Beside the stump on which his friend had died, he 
prayed long and earnestly, vowing to his dead preserver 
to live henceforth solely for his family. U nbroken still- 
ness surrounded him, it seemed as if he were in church, 
and every tree in the forest was a witness of the oath 
he swore. 

The next morning the smith again sought the char- 
coal-burner, and this time found him. Jorg laid the 
blame to Ulrich’s impatience, but promised to go to 
Marx in search of him and bring him to the smith. 
The men composing the escort urged haste, so Adam 
went on without Ulrich towards the north-west, to the 
valley of the Rhine. 

The charcoal-burner had lost the reward offered the 
informer, and could not even earn the money due a 
messenger. 

He had lured Ulrich to the attic and locked him in 


ONLY A WORD. 


IOl 


there, but during his absence the boy escaped. He 
was a nimble fellow, for he had risked the leap from the 
window, and then swung himself over the fence into 
the road. 

Jorg’s conjecture did not deceive him, for as soon as 
Ulrich perceived that he had been betrayed into a 
trap, he had leaped into the open air. 

He must warn his friends, and anxiety for them 
winged his feet. 

Once and again he lost his way, but at last found 
the right path, though he had wasted many hours, first 
in the village, then behind the locked door, and finally 
in searching for the right road. 

The sun had already passed the meridian, when he 
at last reached the clearing. 

The hut was deserted ; no one answered his loud, 
anxious shouts. 

Where had they gone ? 

He searched the Vide, snow-covered expanse for 
traces, and found only too many. Here horses’ hoofs, 
there large and small feet had pressed the snow, yonder 
hounds had run, and — Great Heaven ! — here, by the 
tree-stump, red blood stained the glimmering white 
ground. 

His breath failed, but he did not cease to search, 
look, examine. 

Yonder, where for the length of a man the snow had 
vanished and grass and brown earth appeared, people 
had fought together, and there — Holy Virgin! What 
was this ! — there lay his father’s hammer. He knew it 
only too well ; it was the smaller one, which to distin- 
guish it from the two larger tools, Goliath and Samson, 


102 


A WORD, 


he called David — the boy had swung it a hundred 
times himself. 

His heart stood still, and when he found some 
freshly-hewn pine-boughs, and a fir-trunk that had been 
rejected by one of the men, he said to himself : “ The 
bier was made here,” and his vivid imagination showed 
him his father fighting, struck down, and then a mourn- 
ful funeral procession. Exulting bailiffs bore a tall 
strong-limbed corpse, and a slender, black-robed body, 
his father and his teacher. Then came the quiet, beau- 
tiful wife and Ruth in bonds, and behind them Marx 
and Rahel. He distinctly saw all this ; it even seemed 
as if he heard the sobs of the women, and wailing 
bitterly, he thrust his hands in his floating locks and 
ran to and fro. Suddenly he thought that the troopers 
would return to seize him also. Away, away ! anywhere 
— away ! a voice roared and buzzed in his ears, and he set 
out on a run towards the south, always towards the south. 

The boy had not eaten a mouthful, since the oat- 
meal porridge obtained at the charcoal burner’s, in the 
morning, but felt neither hunger nor thirst, and dashed 
on and on without heeding the way. 

Long after his father had left the clearing for the 
second time, he still ran on — but gasping for breath 
while his steps grew slower and shorter. The moon 
rose, one star after another revealed its light, yet he 
still struggled forward. 

The forest lay behind him ; he had reached a broad 
road, which he followed southward, always southward, 
till his strength utterly failed. His head and hands 
were burning like fire, yet it was very, very cold ; but 
little snow lay here in the valley, and in many places 
the moonlight showed patches of bare, dark turf. 


ONLY A WORD. 


IO3 

Grief was forgotten. Fatigue, anxiety and hunger 
completely engrossed the boy’s mind. He felt tempted 
to throw himself down in the road and sleep, but re- 
membered the frozen people of whom he had heard, 
and dragged himself on to the nearest village. The 
lights had long been extinguished ; as he approached, 
dogs barked in the yards, and the melancholy lowing of 
a cow echoed from many a stable. He was again 
among human beings; the thought exerted a soothing 
influence; he regained his self-control, and sought a 
shelter for the night. 

At the end of the village stood a barn, and Ulrich 
noticed by the moonlight an open hatchway in the wall. 

If he could climb up to it ! The framework offered 
some support for fingers and toes, so he resolved to 
try it. 

Several times, when half-way up, he slipped to the 
ground, but at last reached the top, and found a bed in 
the soft hay under a sheltering roof. Surrounded by the 
fragrance of the dried grasses, he soon fell asleep, and 
in a dream saw amidst various confused and repul- 
sive shapes, first his father with a bleeding wound 
in his broad chest, and then the doctor, dancing with old 
Rahel. Last of all Ruth appeared; she led him into 
the forest to a juniper-bush, and showed him a nest full 
of young birds. But the half-naked creatures vexed 
him, and he trampled them under foot, over which the 
little girl lamented so loudly and bitterly, that he awoke. 

Morning was already dawning, his head ached, and 
he was very cold and hungry, but he had no desire nor 
thought except to proceed; so he again went out into 
the open air, brushed off the hay that still clung to his 
hair and clothes, and walked on towards the south. 


104 


A WORD, 


It had grown warmer and was beginning to snow 

heavily. 

Walking became more and more difficult ; his head- 
ache grew unendurable, yet his feet still moved, though 
it seemed as if he wore heavy leaden shoes. 

Several freight-wagons with armed escorts, and a 
few peasants, with rosaries in their hands, who were on 
their way to church, met the lad, but no one had over- 
taken him. 

On the hinge of noon he heard behind him 
the tramp of horses’ hoofs and the rattle of wheels, ap- 
proaching nearer and nearer with ominous haste. 

If it should be the troopers ! 

Ulrich’s heart stood still, and turning to look back, 
he saw several horsemen, who were trotting past a spur 
of the hill around which the road wound. 

Through the falling flakes the boy perceived glitter- 
ing weapons, gay doublets and scarfs, and now — now 
— all hope was over, they wore Count Frohlinger’s 
colors ! 

Unless the earth should open before him, there was 
no escape. The road belonged to the horsemen ; on the 
right lay a wide, snow-covered plain, on the left rose a 
cliff, kept from falling on the side towards the highway 
by a rude wall. It needed this support less on account 
of the road, than for the sake of a graveyard, for which 
the citizens of the neighboring borough used the gentle 
slope of the mountain. 

The graves, the bare elder-bushes and bushy cy- 
presses in the cemetery were covered with snow, and 
the brighter the white covering that rested on every 
surrounding object, the stronger was the relief in which 
the black crosses stood forth against it. 


ONLY A WORD. 


I0 5 

A small chapel in the rear of the graveyard caught 
Ulrich’s eye. If it was possible to climb the wall, he 
might hide behind it. The horsemen were already close 
at his heels, when lie summoned all his remaining 
strength, rushed to a stone projecting from the wall, and 
began to clamber up. 

The day before it would have been a small matter 
for him to reach the cemetery ; but now the exhausted 
boy only dragged himself upward, to slip on the smooth 
stones and lose the hold, that the dry, snow-covered plants 
growing in the wide crevices treacherously offered him. 

The horsemen had noticed him, and a young man- 
at-arms exclaimed : “A runaway ! See how the young 
vagabond acts. I’ll seize him.” 

He set spurs to his horse as he spoke, and just as 
the boy succeeded in reaching his goal, grasped his foot ; 
but Ulrich clung fast to a gravestone, so the shoe was 
left in the trooper’s hand and his comrades burst into 
a loud laugh. It sounded merry, but it echoed in the 
ears of the tortured lad like a shriek from hell, and urged 
him onward. He leaped over two, five, ten graves 
— then he stumbled over a head-stone concealed by the 
snow. 

With a great effort he rose again, but ere he reached 
the chapel fell once more, and now his will was para- 
lyzed. In mortal terror he clung to a cross, and as his 
senses failed, thought of “the word.” It seemed as if 
some one had called the right one, and from pure weak- 
ness and fatigue, he could not remember it. 

The young soldier was not willing to encounter the 
jeers of his comrades, by letting the vagabond escape. 
With a curt : “ Stop, you rascal,” he threw the shoe into 
the graveyard, gave his bridle to the next man in the line, 


io6 


A WORD. 


and a few minutes after was kneeling by Ulrich’s side. 
He shook and jerked him, but in vain ; then growing 
anxious, called to the others that the boy was probably 
dead. 

“ People never die so quickly !” cried the grey- 
haired leader of the band : “ Give him a blow.” 

The youth raised his arm, but did not strike the lad. 
He had looked into Ulrich’s face, and found something 
there that touched his heart. “ No, no,” he shouted, 
“ come up here, Peter ; a handsome boy ; but it’s all 
over with him, I say.” 

During this delay, the traveller whom the men were 
escorting, and his old servant, approached the cemetery 
at a rapid trot. The former, a gentleman of middle 
age, protected from the cold by costly furs, saw with a 
single hasty glance the cause of the detention. 

Instantly dismounting, he followed the leader of the 
troop to the end of the wall, where there was a flight of 
rude steps. 

Ulrich’s head now lay in the soldier’s arms, and the 
traveller gazed at him with a look of deep sympathy. 
The steadfast glance of his bright eyes rested on the 
boy’s features as if spellbound, then he raised his hand, 
beckoned to the elder soldier, and exclaimed : “ Lift 
him ; we’ll take him with us ; a corner can be found in 
the wagon.” 

The vehicle, of which the traveller spoke, was slow 
in coming. It was a long four-wheeled equipage, over 
which, as a protection against wind and storm, arched a 
round, sail-cloth cover. The driver crouched among 
the straw in a basket behind the horses, like a brood- 
ing hen. 

Under the sheltering canopy, among the luggage o~ 


ONLY A WORD. 


IO7 

the fur-clad gentleman, sat and reclined four travellers, 
whom the owner of the vehicle had gradually picked 
up, and who formed a motley company. 

The two Dominican friars, Magisters Sutor and 
Stubenrauch, had entered at Cologne, for the wagon 
came straight from Holland, and belonged to the artist 
Antonio Moor of Utrecht, who was going to King 
Philip’s court. The beautiful fur border on the black 
cap and velvet cloak showed that he had no occasion 
to practise economy ; he preferred the back of a good 
horse to a seat in a jolting vehicle. 

The ecclesiastics had taken possession of the best 
places in the back of the wagon. They were insepara- 
ble brothers, and formed as it were one person, for they 
behaved like two bodies with one soul. In this double 
life, fat M agister Sutor represented the will, lean Stuben- 
rauch reflection and execution. If the former proposed 
to lie down or sit, eat or drink, sleep or talk, the latter 
instantly carried the suggestion into execution, rarely 
neglecting to establish, by wise words, for what reason 
the act in question should be performed precisely at that 
time. 

Farther towards the front, with his back resting 
against a chest, lay a fine-looking young Lansquenet. 
He was undoubtedly a gay, active fellow, but now sat 
mute and melancholy, supporting with his right hand 
his wounded left arm, as if it were some brittle vessel. 

Opposite to him rose a heap of loose straw, beneath 
which something stirred from time to time, and from 
which at short intervals a slight cough was heard. 

As soon as the door in the back of the vehicle 
opened, and the cold snowy air entered the dark, damp 
space under the tilt, Magister Sutor’s lips parted in a 
8 


A WORD, 


108 

long-drawn “Ugh!” to which his lean companion in- 
stantly added a torrent of reproachful words about the 
delay, the draught, the danger of taking cold. 

When the artist’s head appeared in the opening, the 
priest paused, for Moor paid the travelling expenses ; 
but when his companion Sutor drew his cloak around 
him with every token of discomfort and annoyance, he 
followed his example in a still more conspicuous way. 

The artist paid no heed to these gestures, but quietly 
requested his guests to make room for the boy. 

A muffled head was suddenly thrust out from under 
the straw, a voice cried : “ A hospital on wheels !” then 
the head vanished again like that of a fish, which has 
risen to take a breath of air. 

“ Very true,” replied the artist. “ You need not 
draw up your limbs so far, my worthy Lansquenet, but 
I must request these reverend gentlemen to move a 
little farther apart, or closer together, and make room 
for the sick lad on the leather sack.” 

While these words were uttered, one of the escort 
laid the still senseless boy under the tilt. 

Magister Sutor noticed the snow that clung to Ul- 
rich’s hair and clothing, and while struggling to rise, 
uttered a repellent “ no,” while Stubenrauch hastily 
added reproachfully : “ There will be a perfect pool 
here, when that melts; you gave us these places, Meis- 
ter Moor, but we hardly expected to receive also drip- 
ping limbs and rheumatic pains ” 

Before he finished the sentence, the bandaged head 
again appeared from the straw, and the high, shrill voice 
of the man concealed under it, asked ? “ Was the blood 
of the wounded wayfarer, the good Samaritan picked up 
by the roadside, dry or wet ?” 


ONLY A WORD. 


IO9 

An encouraging glance from Sutor requested Stu- 
oenrauch to make an appropriate answer, and the latter 
in an unctuous tone, hastily replied : “ It was the Lord, 
who caused the Samaritan to find the wounded man by 
the roadside — this did not happen in our case, for the 
wet boy is forced upon us, and though we are Samari- 
tans ” 

“You are not yet merciful,” cried the voice from 
the straw. 

The artist laughed, but the soldier, slapping his 
thigh with his sound hand, cried : 

“ In with the boy, you fellows outside ; here, put him 
on my right — move farther apart, you gentlemen 
down below; the water will do us no harm, if you’ll 
only give us some of the wine in your basket yonder.” 

The priests, willy-nilly, now permitted Ulrich to 
be laid on the leathern sack between them, and while 
first Sutor, and then Stubenrauch, shrunk away to mutter 
prayers over a rosary for the senseless lad’s restoration 
to consciousness, and to avoid coming in contact with his 
wet clothes, the artist entered the vehicle, and without 
asking permission, took the wine from the priests’ bas- 
ket. The soldier helped him, and soon their united 
exertions, with the fiery liquor, revived the fainting boy. 

Moor rode forward, and the wagon jolted on until 
the day’s journey ended at Emmendingen. Count von 
Hochburg’s retainers, who were to serve as escort from 
this point, would not ride on Christmas day. The 
artist made no objection, but when they also declared 
that no horse should leave the stable on the morrow, 
which was a second holiday, he shrugged his shoulders 
and answered, without any show of anger, but in a firm, 
haughty tone, that he should then probably be obliged 
8 


IIO 


A WORD, 


— if necessary with their master’s assistance, — to con- 
duct them to Freiburg to-morrow. 

The inns at Emmendingen were among the largest 
and best in the neighborhood of Freiburg, and on ac- 
count of the changes of escort, which frequently took 
place here, there was no lack of accommodation for 
numerous horses and guests. 

As soon as Ulrich was taken into the warm hostelry 
he fainted a second time, and the artist now cared for 
him as kindly as if he were the lad’s own father. 

Magister Sutor ordered the roast meats, and his 
companion Stubenrauch all the other requisites for a 
substantial meal, in which they had made considerable 
progress, while the artist was still engaged in minister- 
ing to the sick lad, in which kindly office the little man, 
who had been hidden under the straw in the wagon, 
stoutly assisted. 

He had been a buffoon, and his dress still bore many 
tokens of his former profession. His big head swayed 
upon his thin neck; his droll, though emaciated feat- 
ures constantly changed their expression, and even 
when he was not coughing, his mouth was continually 
in motion 

As soon as Ulrich breathed calmly and regularly, 
he searched his clothing to find some clue to his resi- 
dence, but everything he discovered in the lad’s pock- 
ets only led to more and more amusing and startling 
conjectures, for nothing can contain a greater variety of 
objects than a school-boy’s pockets, if we except a 
school-girl’s. 

There was a scrap of paper with a Latin exercise 
bristling with errors, a smooth stone, a shabby, notched 
knife, a bit of chalk for drawing, an iron arrow-head, a 


ONLY A WORD. 


Ill 


broken hobnail, and a falconer’s glove, which Count 
Lips had given his comrade. The ring the doctor’s 
wife had bestowed as a farewell token, was also dis- 
covered around his neck. 

All these things led Pellicanus — so the jester was 
named — to make many a conjecture, and he left none 
untried. 

As a mosaic picture is formed from stones, he by a 
hundred signs, conjured up a vision of the lad’s charac- 
ter, home, and the school from which he had run away. 

He called him the son of a noble of moderate prop- 
erty. In this he was of course mistaken, but in other 
respects perceived, with wonderful acuteness, how Ulrich 
had hitherto been circumstanced, nay even declared 
that he was a motherless child, a fact proved by many 
things he lacked. The boy had been sent to school too 
late — Pellicanus was a good Latin scholar — and per- 
haps had been too early initiated into the mysteries of 
riding, hunting, and woodcraft. 

The artist, merely by the boy’s appearance, gained 
a more accurate knowledge of his real nature, than the 
jester gathered from his investigations and inferences. 

Ulrich pleased him, and when he saw the pen-and- 
ink sketch on the back of the exercise, which Pellicanus 
showed him, he smiled and felt strengthened in the re- 
solve to interest himself still more in the handsome boy, 
whom fate had thrown in his way. He now only 
needed to discover who the lad’s parents were, and 
what had driven him from the school. 

The surgeon of the little town had bled Ulrich, and 
soon after he fell into a sound sleep, and breathed 
quietly. The artist and jester now dined together, for 
the monks had finished their meal long before, and 


112 


A WORD, 


were taking a noonday nap. Moor ordered roast meat 
and wine for the Lansquenet, who sat modestly in one 
corner of the large public room, gazing sadly at his 
wounded arm. 

“ Poor fellow !” said the jester, pointing to the hand- 
some young man. “ We are brothers in calamity ; one 
just like the other; a cart with a broken wheel.” 

“ His arm will soon heal,” replied the artist, “ but 
your tool” — here he pointed to his own lips — ■“ is 
stirring briskly enough now. The monks and I have 
both made its acquaintance within the past few days.” 

“Well, well,” replied Pellicanus, smiling bitterly, 
“ yet they toss me into the rubbish heap.” 

“ That would be ” 

“ Ah, you think the wise would then be fools with 
the fools,” interrupted Pellicanus. “ Not at all. Do 
you know what our masters expect of us ?” 

“ You are to shorten the time for them with wit 
and jest.” 

“ But when must we be real fools, my Lord ? Have 
you considered? Least of all in happy hours.. Then 
we are expected to play the wise man, warn against 
excess, point out shadows. In sorrow, in times of 
trouble, then, fool, be a fool ! The madder pranks you 
play, the better. Make every effort, and if you under- 
stand your trade well, and know your master, you must 
compel him to laugh till he cries, when he would fain 
wail for grief, like a little girl. You know princes too, 
sir, but I know them better. They are gods on earth, 
and won’t submit to the universal lot of mortals, to 
endure pain and anguish. When people are ill, the 
physician is summoned, and in trouble we are at hand. 
Things are as we take them — the gravest face may have a 


ONLY A WORD. 


wart, upon which a jest can be made. When you have 
once laughed at a misfortune, its sting loses its point. 
We deaden it — we light up the darkness — even though 
it be with a will *o the wisp — and if we understand 
our business, manage to hack the lumpy dough of 
heavy sorrow into little pieces, which even a princely 
stomach can digest.” 

“ A coughing fool can do that too, so long as there 
is nothing wanting in his upper story.” 

“ You are mistaken, indeed you are. Great lords 
only wish to see the velvet side of life — of death’s doings, 
nothing at all. A man like me — do you hear — a cougher, 
whose marrow is being consumed — incarnate misery 
on two tottering legs — a piteous figure, whom one can 
no more imagine outside the grave, than a sportsman 
without a terrier, or hound — such a person calls into 
the ears of the ostrich, that shuts its eyes : ‘ Death 

is pointing at you ! Affliction is coming !’ It is 
my duty to draw a curtain between my lord and 
sorrow; instead of that, my own person brings incarnate 
suffering before his eyes. The elector was as wise as if 
he were his own fool, when he turned me out of the 
house.” 

“ He graciously gave you leave of absence.” 

“ And Gugelkopf is already installed in the palace 
as my successor ! My gracious master knows that he 
won’t have to pay the pension long. He would will- 
ingly have supported me up yonder till I died ; but my 
wish to go to Genoa suited him exactly. The more dis- 
tance there is between his healthy highness and the 
miserable invalid, the better.” 

“ Why didn’t you wait till spring, before taking your 
departure ?” 


1 14 


A WORD, 


“ Because Genoa is a hot-house, that the poor 
consumptive does not need in summer. It is pleasant 
to be there in winter. I learned that three years ago, 
when we visited the duke. Even in January the sun in 
Liguria warms your back, and makes it easier to breathe. 
I’m going by way of Marseilles. Will you give me the 
corner in your carriage as far as Avignon ?” 

“ With pleasure ! Your health, Pellicanus ! A good 
wish on Christmas day is apt to be fulfilled.” 

The artist’s deep voice sounded full and cordial, as 
he uttered the words. The young soldier heard them, 
and as Moor and the jester touched glasses, he raised 
his own goblet, drained it to the dregs, and asked 
modestly : “ Will you listen to a few lines of mine, kind 
sir?” 

“ Say them, say them !” cried the artist, filling his 
glass again, while the lansquenet, approaching the table, 
fixed his eyes steadily on the beaker, and in an embar- 
rassed manner, repeated : 

•' On Christmas-day, when Jesus Christ, 

To save us sinners came, 

A poor, sore-wounded soldier dared 
To call upon his name. 

* Oh ! hear,’ he said, ‘ my earnest prayer. 

For the kind, generous man, 

Who gave the wounded soldier aid, 

And bore him through the land. 

So, in Thy shining chariot, 

I pray, dear Jesus mine, 

Thou’lt bear him through a happy life 
To Paradise divine.’ ” 

“ Capital, capital !” cried the artist, pledging the 
lansquenet and insisting that he should sit down between 
him and the jester. 


ONLY A WORD. 


IJ 5 


Pellicanus now gazed thoughtfully into vacancy, for 
what the wounded man could do, he too might surely 
accomplish. It was not only ambition, and the habit of 
answering every good saying he heard with a better 
one, but kindly feeling, that urged him to honor the 
generous benefactor with a speech. 

After a few minutes, which Moor spent in talking 
with the soldier, Pellicanus raised his glass, coughed 
again, and said, first calmly, then in an agitated voice, 
whose sharp tones grew more and more subdued : 


“ A rogue a fool must be, ’t is true, 

Rog’ry sans folly will not do ; 

Where folly joins with roguery, 

There’s little harm, it seems to me. 

The pope, the king, the youthful squire, 
Each one the fool’s cap doth attire ; 

He who the bauble will not wear, 

The worst of fools doth soon appear. 

Thee may the motley still adorn, 

When, an old man, the laurel crown 
Thy head doth deck, while gifts less vain. 
Thine age to bless will still remain. 

When fair grandchildren thee delight, 
Mayst thou recall this Christmas night. 
When added years bring whitening hair. 
The draught of wisdom thou wilt share. 
But it will lack the flavor due, 

Without a drop of folly too. 

And if the drop is not at hand, 

Remember poor old Pellican, 

Who, half a rogue and half a fool, 

Yet has a faithful heart and whole/' 


“ Thanks, thanks!” cried the artist, shaking the jes- 
ter’s hand. “Such a Christmas ought to be lauded! 
Wisdom, art, and courage at one table ! Haven’t I 
fared like the man, who picked up stones by the way- 


A WORD, 


1 16 

side, and lo — they were changed to pure goid in his 
knapsack.” 

“The stone was crumbling,” replied the jester; 
“ but as for the gold, it will stand the test with me, if 
you seek it in the heart, and not in the pocket. Holy 
Blasius ! Would that my grave might lack filling, as long 
as my little strong-box here ; I’d willingly allow it.” 

“ And so would I !” laughed the soldier. 

“ Then travelling will be easy for you,” said the artist. 
“There was a time, when my pouch was no fuller than 
yours. I know by the experience of those days how a 
poor man feels, and never wish to forget it. I still owe 
you my after-dinner speech, but you must let me off, for 
I can’t speak your language fluently. In brief, I wish you 
the recovery of your health, Pellican, and you a joyous 
life of happiness and honor, my worthy comrade. What 
is your name ?” 

“ Hans Eitelfritz von der Liicke, from Colin on 
the Spree,” replied the soldier. “And, no offence, 
Herr Moor, God will care for the monks, but there 
were three poor invalid fellows in your cart. One goblet 
more to the pretty sick boy in there.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

After dinner the artist went with his old servant, 
who had attended to the horses and then enjoyed a 
delicious Christmas roast, to Count von Hochburg, to 
obtain an escort for the next day. 

Pellicanus had undertaken to watch Ulrich, who 
was still sleeping quietly. 


ONLY A WORD. 


M 7 

The jester would gladly have gone to bed himself, 
for he felt cold and tired, but, though the room could 
not be heated, he remained faithfully at his post for 
hours. With benumbed hands and feet, he watched by 
the light of the night-lamp every breath the boy drew, 
often gazing at him as anxiously and sympathizingly, as 
if he were his own child. 

When Ulrich at last awoke, he timidly asked where 
he was, and when the jester had soothed him, begged 
for a bit of bread, he was so hungry. 

How famished he felt, the contents of the dishes 
that were speedily placed before him, soon discovered. 

Pellicanus wanted to feed him like a baby, but the 
boy took the spoon out of his hand, and the former 
smilingly watched the sturdy eater, without disturbing 
him, until he was perfectly satisfied ; then he began to 
perplex the lad with questions, that seemed to him 
neither very intelligible, nor calculated to inspire confi- 
dence. 

“ Well, my little bird !” the jester began, joyously 
anticipating a confirmation of the clever inferences he 
had drawn, “ I suppose it was a long flight to the 
churchyard, where we found you. On the grave is a 
better place than in it, and a bed at Emmendingen, with ' 
plenty of grits and veal, is preferable to being in the 
snow on the highway, with a grumbling stomach. 
Speak freely, my lad ! Where does your nest of robbers 
hang ?” 

“Nest of robbers?” repeated Ulrich in amaze- 
ment. 

“ Well, castle or the like, for aught I care,” con- 
tinued Pellicanus inquiringly. “ Everybody is at home 
somewhere, except Mr. Nobody; but as you aresome- 


A WORD, 


11S 

body, Nobody cannot possibly be your father. Tell me 
about the old fellow !” 

“ My father is dead,” replied the boy, and as the 
events of the preceding day rushed back upon his 
memory, he drew the coverlet over his face and wept. 

“ Poor fellow !” murmured the jester, hastily drawing 
his sleeve across his eyes, and leaving the lad in peace, 
till he showed his face again. Then he continued : “ But 
I suppose you have a mother at home ?” 

Ulrich shook his head mournfully, and Pellicanus, to 
conceal his own emotion, looked at him with a comical 
grimace, and then said very kindly, though not without 
a feeling of satisfaction at his own penetration : 

“ So you are an orphan ! Yes, yes ! So long as the 
mother's wings cover it, the young bird doesn’t fly so 
thoughtlessly out of the warm nest into the wide world. 
I suppose the Latin school grew too narrow for the 
young nobleman ?” 

Ulrich raised himself, exclaiming in an eager, defiant 
tone : 

“ I won’t go back to the monastery ; that I will 
not.” 

“ So that’s the way the hare jumps !” cried the fool 
laughing. “ You’ve been a bad Latin scholar, and the 
timber in the forest is dearer to you, than the wood in 
the school-room benches. To be sure, they send out 
no green shoots. Dear Lord, how his face is burning !” 

So saying, Pellicanus laid his hand on the boy’s 
forehead and when he felt that it was hot, deemed it 
better to stop his examination for the day, and only 
asked his patient his name. 

“ Ulrich,” was the reply. 

“ And what else ?” 


ONLY A WORD. 


1 1 9 

“ Let me alone !” pleaded the boy, drawing the 
coverlet over his head again. 

The jester obeyed his wish, and opened the door 
leading into the tap-room, for some one had knocked. 

The artist’s servant entered, to fetch his master’s 
portmanteau. Old Count von Hochburg had invited 
Moor to be his guest, and the painter intended to spend 
the night at the castle. Pellicanus was to take care of 
the boy, and if necessary send for the surgeon again. 

An hour after, the sick jester lay shivering in his 
bed, coughing before sleeping and between naps. 

Ulrich too could obtain no slumber. 

At first he wept softly, for he now clearly realized, 
for the first time, that he had lost his father and should 
never see Ruth, the doctor, nor the doctor’s dumb wife 
Elizabeth again. Then he wondered how he had come 
to Emmendingen, what sort of a place it was, and who 
the queer little man could be, who had taken him for a 
young noble — the quaint little man with the cough, and 
a big head, whose eyes sparkled so through his tears. 
The jester’s mistake made him laugh, and he remem- 
bered that Ruth had once advised him to command 
the “ word,” to transform him into a count. 

Suppose he should say to-morrow, that his father 
had been a knight ? 

But the wicked thought only glided through his 
mind; even before he had reflected upon it, he felt 
ashamed of himself, for he was no liar. 

Deny his father ! That was very wrong, and when 
he stretched himself out to sleep, the image of the val- 
iant smith stood with tangible distinctness before his 
soul. Gravely and sternly he floated upon clouds, and 
looked exactly like the pictures Ulrich had seen of God 


20 


A WORD, 


the Father, only he wore the smith’s cap on his grey 
hair. Even in Paradise, the glorified spirit had not 
relinquished it. 

Ulrich raised his hands as if praying, but hastily let 
them fall again, for there was a great stir outside of the 
inn. The tramp of steeds, the loud voices of men, the 
sound of drums and fifes were audible, then there was 
rattling, marching and shouting in the court-yard. 

“A room for the clerk of the muster-roll and 
paymaster !” cried a voice. 

“ Gently, gently, children !” said the deep tones of 
the provost, who was the leader, counsellor and friend of 
the Lansquenets. “ A devout servant must not bluster 
at the holy Christmas-tide ; he’s permitted to drink a 
glass, Heaven be praised. Your house is to be greatly 
honored, Landlord! The recruiting for our most gra- 
cious commander, Count von Oberstein, is to be 
done here. Do you hear, man! Everything to be 
paid for in cash, and not a chicken will be lost ; but the 
wine must be good ! Do you understand ? So this 
evening broach a cask of your best. Pardon me, chil- 
dren — the very best, I meant to say.” 

Ulrich now heard the door of the tap-room open, 
and fancied he could see the Lansquenets in gay cos- 
tumes, each one different from the other, crowd into 
the apartment. 

The jester coughed loudly, scolding and muttering 
to himself ; but Ulrich listened with sparkling eyes to 
the sounds that came through the ill-fitting door, by 
which he could hear what was passing in the next room. 

With the clerk of the muster-rolls, the paymaster 
and provost had appeared the drummers and fifers, who 
the day after to-morrow were to sound the license for 


ONLY A WORD. 


I 2 I 


recruiting, and besides these, twelve Lansquenets, who 
were evidently no novices. 

Many an exclamation of surprise and pleasure was 
heard directly after their entrance into the tap-room, 
and amid the confusion of voices, the name of Hans 
Eitelfritz fell more than once upon Ulrich’s ear. 

The provost’s voice sounded unusually cordial, as he 
greeted the brave fellow with the wounded hand — an 
honor of great value to the latter, for he had served five 
years in the same company with the provost, “ Father 
Kanold,” who read the very depths of his soldiers’ 
hearts, and knew them all as if they were his own sons. 

Ulrich could not understand much amid the medley 
of voices in the adjoining room, but when Hans Eitel- 
fritz, from Colin on the Spree, asked to be the first 
one put down on the muster-roll, he distinctly heard 
the provost oppose the clerk’s scruples, saying warmly : 
“ write, write ; I’d rather have him with one hand, than 
ten peevish fellows with two. He has fun and life in 
him. Advance him some money too, he probably 
lacks many a piece of armor.” 

Meantime the wine T cask must have been opened, 
for the clink of glasses, and soon after loud singing was 
audible. 

Just as the second song began, the boy fell asleep, 
but woke again two hours after, roused by the stillness 
that had suddenly succeeded the uproar. 

Hans Eitelfritz had declared himself ready to give a 
new song in his best vein, and the provost commanded 
silence. 

The singing now began; during its continuance 
Ulrich raised himself higher and higher in bed, not a 
word escaped him, either of the song itself, or the cho- 


122 


A WORD, 


rus, which was repeated by the whole party, with ex- 
uberant gayety, amid the loud clinking of goblets. 
Never before had the lad heard such bold, joyous 
voices; even at the second verse his heart bounded 
and it seemed as if he must join in the tune, which he 
had quickly caught. The song ran as follows : 

Who, who will venture to hold me back ? 

Drums beat, fifes are playing a merry tune ! 

Down hammer, down pen, what more need I, alack 
I go to seek fortune, good fortune ! 

Oh father, mother, dear sister mine, 

Blue-eyed maid at the bridge-house, my fair one. 

Weep not, ye must not at parting repine, 

I go to seek fortune, good fortune ! 

The cannon roar loud, the sword flashes bright, 

Who’ll dare meet the stroke of my falchion ? 

Close-ranked, horse and foot in battle unite, 

In war, war, dwells fortune, good fortune ! 

The city is taken, the booty mine ; 

With red gold, I'll deck — I know whom ; 

Fair maids’ cheeks burn red, red too glows the wine, 

Fortune, Paradise of good fortune ! 

Deep, scarlet wounds, brave breasts adorn. 

Impoverished, crippled age I shun 
A death of honor, 'mid glory won. 

This too is good fortune, good fortune 1 

A soldier-lad composed this ditty 
Hans Eitelfritz he, fair Colin’s son. 

His kindred dwell in the goodly city, 

But he himself in fortune, good fortune ! 

“ He himself in fortune, good fortune,” sang Ulrich 
also, and while, amid loud shouts of joy, the glasses 
again clinked against each other, he repeated the 
glad “fortune, good fortune.” Suddenly, it flashed upon 


ONLY A WORD. 


123 


him like a revelation, “Fortune,” that might be the 
word ! 

Such exultant joy, such lark-like trilling, such in- 
spiring promises of happiness had never echoed in any 
word, as they now did from the “ fortune,” the young 
lansquenet so gaily and exultantly uttered. 

“ Fortune, Fortune!” he exclaimed aloud, and the jes- 
ter, who was lying sleepless in his bed and could not help 
smiling at the lad’s singing, raised himself, saying : 

“ Do you like the word ? Whoever understands 
how to seize it when it flits by, will always float on top 
of everything, like fat on the soup. Rods are cut from 
birches, willows, and knotted hazel-sticks — ho! ho! — 
you know that, already; — but, for him who has good 
fortune, larded cakes, rolls and sausages grow. One 
bold turn of Fortune’s wheel will bring him, who has 
stood at the bottom, up to the top with the speed of 
lightning. Brother Queer-fellow says : ‘ Up and down, 
like an avalanche.’ But now turn over and go to sleep. 
To-morrow will also be a Christmas-day, which will 
perhaps bring you Fortune as a Christmas gift. 

It seemed as if Ulrich had not called upon Fortune 
in vain, for as soon as he closed his eyes, a pleasant 
dream bore him with gentle hands to the forge on the 
market-place, and his mother stood beside the lighted 
Christmas-tree, pointing to the new sky-blue suit she 
had made him, and the apples, nuts, hobby-horse, and 
jumping-jack, with a head as round as a ball, huge ears, 
and tiny flat legs. He felt far too old for such childish 
toys, and yet took a certain pleasure in them. Then 
the vision changed, and he again saw his mother; but 
this time she was walking among the angels in Para- 
dise. A royal crown adorned her golden hair, and she 
9 


124 


A WORD, 


told him she was permitted to wear it there, because she 
had.been so reviled, and endured so much disgrace on 
earth. 

When the artist returned from Count von Hoch- 
burg’s the next morning, he was not a little surprised 
to see Ulrich standing before the recruiting- table bright 
and well. 

The lad’s cheeks were glowing with shame and an- 
ger, for the clerk of the muster-rolls and paymaster had 
laughed in his face, when he expressed his desire to 
become a Lansquenet. 

The artist soon learned what was going on, and 
bade his proteg6 accompany him out of doors. Kindly, 
and without either mockery or reproof, he represented 
to him that he was still far too young for military ser- 
vice, and after Ulrich had confirmed everything the 
painter had already heard from the jester, Moor asked 
who had given him instruction in drawing. 

“ My father, and afterwards Father Lukas in the 
monastery,” replied the boy. “ But don’t question me 
as the little man did last night.” 

“ No, no,” said his protector. “ But there are one 
or two more things I wish to know. Was your father 
an artist ? ” 

“ No,” murmured the lad, blushing and hesitating. 
But when he met the stranger’s clear gaze, he quickly 
regained his composure, and said : 

“He only knew how to draw, because he under- 
stood how to forge beautiful, artistic things.” 

“ And in what city did you live ? ” 

“ In no city. Outside in the woods.” 

“ Oho ! ” said the artist, smiling significantly, for he 
knew that many knights practised a trade. “ Answer 


ONLY A WORD. 


T2 5 


only two questions more ; then you shall be left in peace 
until you voluntarily open your heart to me. What is 
your name ? ” 

“ Ulrich.” 

“ I know that ; but your father’s ? ” 

“ Adam.” 

“ And what else ? ” 

Ulrich gazed silently at the ground, for the smith 
had borne no other name. 

“Well then,” said Moor, “ we will call you Ulrich 
for the present ; that will suffice. But have you no rela- 
tives ? Is no One waiting for you at home ? ” 

“ We have led such a solitary life — no one.” 

Moor looked fixedly into the boy’s face, then nod- 
ded, and with a well-satisfied expression, laid his hand on 
Ulrich’s curls, and said : 

“ Look at me. I am an artist, and if you have any 
love for my profession, I will teach you.” 

“ Oh ! ” cried the boy, clasping his hands in glad 
surprise. 

“ Well then,” Moor continued, “ you can’t learn 
much on the way, but we can work hard in Madrid. 
We are going now to King Philip of Spain.” 

“ Spain, Portugal ! ” murmured Ulrich with sparkling 
eyes ; all he had heard in the doctor’s house about these 
countries returned to his mind. 

“ Fortune, good fortune!” cried an exultant voice in 
his heart. This was the “word,” it must be, it was 
already exerting its spell, and the spell was to prove its 
inherent power in the near future. 

That very day the party were to go to Count von 
Rappoltstein in the village of Rappolts, and this time 
Ulrich was not to plod along on foot, or lie in a close 
9 


126 


A WORD, 


baggage-wagon; no, he was to be allowed to ride a 
spirited horse. The escort would not consist of hired 
servants, but of picked men, and the count was going to 
join the train in person at the hill crowned by the 
c&stle, for Moor had promised to paint a portrait of the 
nobleman’s daughter, who had married Count von Rap- 
poltstein. It was to be a costly Christmas gift, which 
the old gentleman intended to make himself and his 
faithful wife. 

The wagon was also made ready for the journey ; 
but no one rode inside ; the jester, closely muffled in 
wraps, had taken his seat beside the driver, and the 
monks were obliged to go on by way of Freiburg, and 
therefore could use the vehicle no longer. 

They scolded and complained about it, as if they 
had been greatly wronged, and when Sutor refused to 
shake hands with the artist, Stubenrauch angrily turned 
his back upon the kind-hearted man. 

The offended pair sullenly retired, but the Christmas 
sun shone none the less brightly from the clear sky, 
the party of travellers had a gay, spick and span, holi- 
day aspect, and the world into which they now fared 
stoutly forth, was so wide and beautiful, that Ulrich for- 
got his grief, and joyously waved his new cap in answer 
to the Lansquenet’s farewell gesture. 

It was a merry ride, for on the way they met nu- 
merous travellers, who were going through the hamlet of 
Rappolts to the “ three castles on the mountain” and 
saluted the old nobleman with lively songs. The 
Counts von Rappoltstein were the “piper-kings,” the 
patrons of the brotherhood of musicians and singers on 
the Upper Rhine. Usually these joyous birds met at the 
castle of their “ king ” on the 8th of September, to pay 


ONLY A WORD. 


127 


him their little tax and be generously entertained in re- 
turn ; but this year, on account of the plague in the 
autumn, the festival had been deferred until the third 
day after Christmas, but Ulrich believed ‘ Fortune’ had 
arranged it so for him. 

There was plenty of singing, and the violins and 
rebecs, flutes, and reed-pipes were never silent. One 
serenade followed another, and even at the table a new 
song rang out at each new course. 

The fiery wine, game and sweet cakes at the castle 
board undoubtedly pleased the palate of the artisan’s 
son, but he enjoyed feasting his ears still more. He felt 
as if he were in Heaven, and thought less and less of 
the grief he had endured. 

Day by day Fortune shook her horn of plenty, and 
flung new gifts down upon him. 

He had told the stable-keepers of his power over 
refractory horses, and after proving what he could do, 
was permitted to tame wild stallions and ride them 
about the castle-yard, before the eyes of the old and 
young count and the beautiful young lady. This brought 
him praise and gifts of new clothes. Many a deli- 
cate hand stroked his curls, and it always seemed to 
him as if his mighty spell could bestow nothing better. 

One day Moor took him aside, and told him that he 
had commenced a portrait of young Count Rappolstein 
too. The lad was obliged to lie still, having broken his 
foot in a fall from his horse, and as Ulrich was of the 
same size and age, the artist wished him to put on 
the young count’s clothes and serve as a model. 

The smith’s son now received the best clothes be- 
longing to his aristocratic companion in age. The suit 
was entirely black, but each garment of a different 


A WORD, 


I 28 

material, the stockings silk, the breeches satin, the 
doublet soft Flanders velvet. Golden-yellow puffs and 
slashes stood forth in beautiful relief against the darker 
stuff. Even the knots of ribbon on the breeches and 
shoes were as yellow as a blackbird’s beak. Delicate 
lace trimmed the neck and fell on the hands, and a 
clasp of real gems confined the black and yellow plumes 
in the velvet hat. 

All this finery was wonderfully becoming to the 
smith’s son, and he must have been blind, if he had not 
noticed how old and young nudged each other at sight 
of him. The spirit of vanity in his soul laughed 
in delight, and the lad soon knew the way to the large 
Venetian mirror, which was carefully kept in the hall of 
state. This wonderful glass showed Ulrich for the first 
time his whole figure and the image which looked back 
at him from the crystal, flattered and pleased him. 

But, more than aught else, he enjoyed watching the 
artist’s hand and eye during the sittings. Poor Father 
Lukas in the monastery must hide his head before this 
master. He seemed to actually grow while engaged in 
his work, his shoulders, which he usually liked to carry 
stooping forward, straightened, the broad, manly breast 
arched higher, and the kindly eyes grew stern, nay 
sometimes wore a terrible expression. 

Although little was said during the sittings, they 
were always too short for the boy. He did not stir, for 
it always seemed to him as if any movement would de- 
stroy the sacred act he witnessed, and when, in the 
pauses, he looked at the canvas and saw how swiftly 
and steadily the work progressed, he felt as if before his 
own eyes, he was being born again to a nobler existence. 

In the wassail-hall hung the portrait of a young Prince 


ONLY A WORD. 


129 

of Navarre, whose life had been saved in the chase by 
a Rappoltstein. Ulrich, attired in the count’s clothes, 
looked exactly like him. The jester had been the first 
to perceive this strange circumstance. Every one, even 
Moor, agreed with him, and so it happened that Pelli- 
canus henceforth called his young friend the Navarrete. 
The name pleased the boy. Everything here pleased 
him, and he was full of happiness; only often at night 
he could not help grieving because, while his father was 
dead, he enjoyed such an overflowing abundance of 
good things, and because he had lost his mother, Ruth, 
and all who had loved him. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Ulrich was obliged to share the jester’s sleeping- 
room, and as Pellicanus shrank from getting out of bed, 
while suffering from night-sweats, and often needed 
something, he roused Ulrich from his sleep, and the 
latter was always ready to assist him. This happened 
more frequently as they continued their journey, and the 
poor little man’s illness increased. 

The count had furnished Ulrich with a spirited 
young horse, that shortened the road for him by its 
tricks and capers. But the jester, who became more 
and more attached to the boy, also did his utmost to 
keep the feeling of happiness alive in his heart. On warm 
days he nestled in the rack before the tilt with the 
driver, and when Ulrich rode beside him, opened his 
eyes to everything that passed before him. 

The jester had a great deal to tell about the country 


A WORD, 


130 

and people, and he embellished the smallest trifle with 
tales invented by himself, or devised by others. 

While passing a grove of birches, he asked the lad 
if he knew why the trunks of these trees were white, and 
then explained the cause, as follows : 

“ When Orpheus played so exquisitely on his lute, all 
the trees rushed forward to dance. The birches wanted 
to come too, but being vain, stopped to put on white 
dresses, to outdo the others. When they finally ap- 
peared on the dancing-ground, the singer had already 
gone — and now, summer and winter, year in and year 
out, they keep their white dresses on, to be prepared, 
when Orpheus returns and the lute sounds again.” 

A cross-bill was perched on a bough in a pine- wood, 
and the jester said that this bird was a very peculiar 
species. It had originally been grey, and its bill was as 
straight as a sparrow’s, but when the Saviour hung upon 
the cross, it pitied him, and with its little bill strove to 
draw the nails from the wounded hands. In memory 
of this friendly act, the Lord had marked its beak with 
the cross, and painted a dark-red spot on its breast, 
where the bird had been sprinkled with His Son’s blood. 
Other rewards were bestowed upon it, for no other bird 
could hatch a brood of young ones in winter, and it 
also had the power of lessening the fever of those, who 
cherished it. 

A flock of wild geese flew over the road and the 
hills, and Pellicanus cried : “ Look there ! They always 
fly in two straight lines, and form a letter of the alpha- 
bet. This time it is an A. Can you see it ? When 
the Lord was writing the laws on the tablets, a flock of 
wild geese flew across Mt. Sinai, and in doing so, one 
effaced a letter with its wing. Since that time, they 


ONLY A WORD. 


l 3 I 

always fly in the shape of a letter, and their whole race, 
that is, all geese, are compelled to let those people who 
wish to write, pluck the feathers from their wings.” 

Pellicanus was fond of talking to the boy in their 
bedroom. He always called him Navarrete, and the 
artist, when in a cheerful mood, followed his example. 

Ulrich felt great reverence for Moor; the jester, on 
the contrary, was only a good comrade, in whom he 
speedily reposed entire confidence. 

Many an allusion and jesting word showed that Pel- 
licanus still believed him to be the son of a knight, and 
this at last became unendurable to the lad. 

One evening, when they were both in bed, he sum- 
moned up his courage and told him everything he knew 
about his past life. 

The jester listened attentively, without interrupting 
him, until Ulrich finished his story with the words : 
“ And while I was gone, the bailiffs and dogs tracked 
them, but my father resisted, and they killed him and 
the doctor.” 

“ Yes, yes,” murmured the jester. “ It’s a pity 
about Costa. Many a Christian might feel honored at 
resembling some Jews. It is only a misfortune to be 
born a Hebrew, and be deprived of eating ham. The 
Jews are compelled to wear an offensive badge, but many 
a Christian child is bom with one. For instance, in 
Sparta they would have hurled me into the gulf, on 
account of my big head, and deformed shoulder. Now- 
a-days, people are less merciful, and let men like us 
drag the cripple’s mark through life. God sees the 
heart ; but men cannot forget their ancestor, the clod of 
earth — the outside is always more to them than the 
inside. If my head had only been smaller, and some 


I 3 2 


A ~.VOKD, 


angel had smoothed my shoulder, I might perhaps now 
be a cardinal, wear purple, and instead of riding under 
a grey tilt, drive in a golden coach, with well-fed black 
steeds. Your body was measured with a straight yard- 
stick, but there’s trouble in other places. So your fa- 
ther’s name was Adam, and he really bore no other ? ” 

“ No, certainly not.” 

“ That’s too little by half. From this day we’ll call 
you in earnest Navarrete: Ulrich Navarrete. That will 
be something complete. The name is only a dress, but 
if half of it is taken from your body, you are left half- 
bare and exposed to mockery. The garment must be 
becoming too, so we adorn it as we choose. My 
father was called Kurschner, but at the Latin school 
Olearius and Faber and Luscinius sat beside me, so I 
raised myself to the rank of a Roman citizen, and 
turned Kurschner into Pellicanus. . . .” 

The jester coughed violently, and continued : “ One 
thing more. To expect gratitude is folly, nine times out 
of ten none is reaped, and he who is wise thinks only of 
himself, and usually omits to seek thanks ; but every one 
ought to be grateful, for it is burdensome to have ene- 
mies, and there is no one we learn to hate more easily, 
than the benefactor we repay with ingratitude. You 
ought and must tell the artist your history, for he has 
deserved your confidence. 

The jester’s worldly-wise sayings, in which selfish- 
ness was always praised as the highest virtue, often 
seemed very puzzling to the boy, yet many of them 
were impressed on his young soul. He followed the 
sick man’s advice the very next morning, and he had no 
cause to regret it, for Moor treated him even more 
kindly than before. 


ONLY A WORD. 1 33 

Pellicanus intended to part from the travellers at 
Avignon, to go to Marseilles, and from there by ship to 
Savona, but before he reached the old city of the popes, 
he grew so feeble, that Moor scarcely hoped to bring 
him alive to the goal of his journey. 

The little man’s body seemed to continually grow 
smaller, and his head larger, while his hollow, livid 
cheeks looked as if a rose-leaf adorned the centre of 
each. 

He often told his travelling-companions about his 
former life. 

He had originally been destined for the ecclesiasti- 
cal profession, but though he surpassed all the other 
pupils in the school, he was deprived of the hope of 
ever becoming a priest, for the Church wants no crip- 
ples. He was the child of poor people, and had been 
obliged to fight his way through his career as a student, 
with great difficulty. 

“ How shabby the broad top of my cap often was ! ” 
he said. “ I was so much ashamed of it. I am so 
small. Dear me, anybody could see my head, and 
could not help noticing all the worn places in the velvet, 
if he cast his eyes down. How often have I sat beside 
the kitchen of a cook-shop, and seasoned dry bread 
with the smell of roast meat. Often too my poodle- 
dog went out and stole a sausage for me from the 
butcher.” 

At other times the little fellow had fared better; 
then, sitting in the taverns, he had given free-play to his 
wit, and imposed no constraint on his sharp tongue. 

Once he had been invited by a former boon-com- 
panion, to accompany him to his ancestral castle, to 
cheer his sick father; and so it happened that he be- 


*34 


A WORD, 


came a buffoon, wandered from one great lord to an- 
other, and finally entered the elector’s service. 

He liked to pretend that he despised the world and 
hated men, but this assertion could not be taken liter- 
ally, and was to be regarded in a general, rather than a 
special sense, for every beautiful thing in the world 
kindled eager enthusiasm in his heart, and he remained 
kindly disposed towards individuals to the end. 

When Moor once charged him with this, he said, 
smiling : 

“ What would you have ? Whoever condemns, feels 
himself superior to the person upon whom he sits 
in judgment, and how many fools, like me, fancy 
themselves great, when they stand on tiptoe, and find 
fault even with the works of God ! 1 The world is evil,’ 

says the philosopher, and whoever listens to him, prob- 
ably thinks carelessly : ‘ Hear, hear ! He would have 
made it better than our Father in heaven.’ Let me 
have my pleasure. I’m only a little man, but I deal in 
great things. To criticise a single insignificant human 
creature, seems to me scarcely worth while, but when 
we pronounce judgment on all humanity and the 
boundless universe, we can open our mouths — wonder- 
' fully wide ! ” 

Once his heart had been filled with love for a beau- 
tiful girl, but she had scornfully rejected his suit and 
married another. When she was widowed, and he 
found her in dire poverty, he helped her with a large 
share of his savings, and performed this kind service 
again, when the second worthless fellow she married had 
squandered her last penny. 

His life was rich in similar incidents. 

In his actions, the queer little man obeyed the die- 


ONLY A WORD. 


i3.‘ 

fates of his heart; in his speech, his head ruled his 
tongue, and this seemed to him the only sensible course. 
To practise unselfish generosity he regarded as a 
subtle, exquisite pleasure, which he ventured to allow 
himself, because he desired nothing more; others, to 
whom he did not grudge a prosperous career, he must 
warn against such folly. 

There was a keen, bitter expression on his large, 
thin face, and whoever saw him for the first time might 
easily have supposed him to be a wicked, spiteful man. 
He knew this, and delighted in frightening the men and 
maid-servants at the taverns by hideous grimaces — he 
boasted of being able to make ninety-five different 
faces — until the artist’s old valet at last dreaded him 
like the “ Evil One.” 

He was particularly gay in Avignon, for he felt bet- 
ter than he had done for a long time, and ordered a 
seat to be engaged for him in a vehicle going to Mar- 
seilles. 

The evening before their separation, he described 
with sparkling vivacity, the charms of the Ligurian 
coast, and spoke of the future as if he were sure of entire 
recovery and a long life. 

In the night Ulrich heard him groaning louder than 
usual, and starting up, raised him, as he was in the 
habit of doing when the poor little man was tortured 
by difficulty of breathing. But this time Pellicanus did 
not swear and scold, but remained perfectly still, and 
when his heavy head fell like a pumpkin on the boy’s 
breast, he was greatly terrified and ran to call the artist. 

Moor was soon standing at the head of the sick-bed, 
holding a light, so that its rays could fall upon the face 
of the gasping man. The latter opened his eyes and 


136 


A WORD, 


made three grimaces in quick succession — very comical 
ones, yet tinged with sadness. 

Pellicanus probably noticed the artist’s troubled 
glance, for he tried to nod to him, but his head was too 
heavy and his strength too slight, so he only succeeded 
in moving it first to the right and then to the left, but 
his eyes expressed everything he desired to say. In 
this way several minutes elapsed, then Pellicanus smiled, 
and with a sorrowful gaze, though a mischievous ex- 
pression hovered around his mouth, scanned : 

“ Mox erit quiet and mute, qui modo jester e rat” 

Then he said as softly as if every tone came, not 
from his chest, but merely from his lips : 

“ Is it agreed, Navarrete, Ulrich Navarrete ? I’ve 
made the Latin easy for you, eh? Your hand, boy. 

Yours, too, dear, dear master Moor, Ethiopian 

— Blackskin. . . d* 

The words died away in a low, rattling sound, &nd 
the dying man’s eyes became glazed, but it was several 
hours before he drew his last breath. 

A priest gave him Extreme Unction, but conscious- 
ness did not return. 

After the holy man had left him, his lips moved in- 
cessantly, but no one could understand what he said. 
Towards morning, the sun of Provence was shining 
warmly and brightly into the room and on his bed, 
when he suddenly threw his arm above his head, and 
half speaking, half singing to Hans Eitelfritz’s melody, 
let fall from his lips the words : “ In fortune, good for- 
tune.” A few minutes after he was dead. 

Moor closed his eyes. Ulrich knelt weeping beside 
the bed, and kissed his poor friend’s cold hand. 

When he rose, the artist was gazing with silent rev 


i 


ONLY* A WORD. *37 

erence at the jester’s features; Ulrich followed his eyes, 
and imagined he was standing in the presence of a 
miracle, for the harsh, bitter, troubled face had obtained 
a new expression, and was now the countenance of a 
peaceful, kindly man, who had fallen asleep with pleas- 
ant memories in his heart. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

For the first time in his life Ulrich had witnessed 
the death of a human being. 

How often he had laughed at the fool, or thought 
his words absurd and wicked; — but the dead man in- 
spired him with respect, and the thought of the old 
jester’s corpse exerted a far deeper and more lasting 
influence upon him, than his father’s supposed death. 

Hitherto he had only been able to imagine him as 
he had looked in life, but now the vision of him 
stretched at full length, stark and pale like the dead 
Pellicanus, often rose before his mind. 

The artist was a silent man, and understood how to 
think and speak in lines and colors, better than in words. 
He only became eloquent and animated, when, the con- 
versation turned upon subjects connected with his art. 

At Toulouse he purchased three new horses, and en- 
gaged the same number of French servants, then went 
to a jeweller and bought many articles. At the inn he 
put the chains and rings he had obtained, into pretty 
little boxes, and wrote on them in neat Gothic characters 
with special care : “ Helena, Anna, Minerva, Europa 
and Lucia ;” one name on each. 


A WORD, 


* 3 8 


Ulrich watched him and remarked that those were 
not his children’s names. 

Moor looked up, and answered smiling : “ These 

are only young artists, six sisters, each one of whom is 
as dear to me as if she were my own daughter. I hope 
we shall find them in Madrid, one of them, Sophonisba, 
at any rate.” 

“ But there are only five boxes,” observed the boy, 
“ and you haven’t written Sophonisba on any of them.” 

“ She is to have something better,” replied his 
patron smiling. “ My portrait, which I began to paint 
yesterday, will be finished here. Hand me the mirror, 
the maul-stick, and the colors.” 

The picture was a superb likeness, absolutely faultless. 
The pure brow curved in lofty arches at the temples, 
the small eyes looked as clear and bright as they did in 
the mirror, the firm mouth shaded by a thin moustache, 
seemed as if it were just parting to utter a friendly 
word. The close-shaven beard on the cheeks and 
chin rested closely upon the white ruff, which seemed 
to have just come from under the laundresses’ smooth- 
ing-iron. 

How rapidly and firmly the master guided his brush ! 
And Sophonisba, whom Moor distinguished by such a 
gift, how was he to imagine her ? The other five sisters 
too ! For their sakes he first anticipated with pleasure 
the arrival at Madrid. 

In Bayonne the artist left the baggage-wagon be- 
hind. His luggage was put on mules, and when the 
party of travellers started, it formed an imposing 
caravan. 

Ulrich expressed his surprise at such expenditure, 
and Moor answered kindly : “ Pellicanus says : ‘Among 


ONLY A WORD. 


39 


fools one must be a fool !’ We enter Spain as the king’s 
guests, and courtiers have weak eyes, and only notice 
people who give themselves airs.” 

At Fuenterrabia, the first Spanish city they reached, 
the artist received many honors, and a splendid troop 
of cavalry escorted him thence to Madrid. 

Moor came as a guest to King Philip’s capital for 
the third time, and was received there with all the 
tokens of respect usually paid only to great noblemen. 

His old quarters in the treasury of the Alcazar, the 
palace of the kings of Castile, were again assigned to 
him. They consisted of a studio and suite of apart- 
ments, which by the monarch’s special command, had 
been fitted up for him with royal magnificence. 

Ulrich could not control his amazement. How poor 
and petty everything that a short time before, at Castle 
Rappolstein, had awakened his wonder and admiration 
now appeared. 

During the first few days the artist’s reception-room 
resembled a bee-hive; for aristocratic men and women, 
civil and ecclesiastical dignitaries passed in and out, 
pages and lackeys brought flowers, baskets of fruits, and 
other gifts. Every one attached to the court knew in 
what high favor the artist was held by His Majesty, 
and therefore hastened to win his good-will by atten- 
tions and presents. Every hour there was something 
new and astonishing to be seen, but the artist himself 
most awakened the boy’s surprise. 

The unassuming man, who on the journey had asso- 
ciated as familiarly with the poor invalids he had picked 
up by the wayside, the tavern-keepers, and soldiers of 
his escort, as if he were one of themselves, now seemed 
a very different person. True, he still dressed in black, 


io 


A WORD, 


146 

but instead of cloth and silk, he wore velvet and satin, 
while two gold chains glittered beneath his ruff. He 
treated the greatest nobles as if he were doing them a 
favor by receiving them, and he himself were a person 
of unapproachable rank. 

On the first day Philip and his queen, Isabella of 
Valois, had sent for him and adorned him with a costly 
new chain. 

On this occasion Ulrich saw the king. Dressed as 
a page he followed Moor, carrying the picture the 
latter intended for a gift to his royal host. 

At the time of their entrance into the great reception- 
hall, the monarch was sitting motionless, gazing into 
vacancy, as if all the persons gathered around him had 
no existence for him. His head was thrown far back, 
pressing down the stiff ruff, on which it seemed to rest 
as if it were a platter. The fair-haired man’s well- 
cut features wore the rigid, lifeless expression of a 
mask. The mouth and nostrils were slightly contracted, 
as if they shrank from breathing the same air with other 
human beings. 

The monarch’s face remained unmoved, while re- 
ceiving the Pope’s legates and the ambassadors from the 
republic of Venice. When Moor was led before him, a 
faint smile was visible beneath the soft, drooping mous- 
tache and close-shaven beard on the cheeks and chin ; 
the prince’s dull eyes also gained some little animation. 

The day after the reception a bell rang in the 
studio, which was cleared of all present as quickly as 
possible, for it announced the approach of the king, 
who appeared entirely alone and spent two whole hours 
with Moor. 

All these marks of distinction might have turned a 


ONLY A WORD. 141 

weaker brain, but Moor received them calmly, and as 
soon as he was alone with Ulrich or Sophonisba, ap- 
peared no less unassuming and kindly, than at Emmen- 
dingen and on the journey through France. 

A week after taking possession of the apartments in 
the treasury, the servants received orders to refuse ad- 
mittance to every one, without distinction of rank or 
person, informing them that the artist was engaged in 
working for His Majesty. 

Sophonisba Anguisciola was the only person whom 
Moor never refused to see. He had greeted the strange 
girl on his arrival, as a father meets his child. 

Ulrich had been present when the artist gave her 
his portrait, and saw her, overwhelmed with joy and 
gratitude, cover her face with her hands and burst into 
loud sobs. 

During Moor’s first visit to Madrid, the young girl 
had come from Cremona to the king’s court with her 
father and five sisters, and since then the task of sup- 
porting all six had rested on her shoulders. 

Old Cavaliere Anguisciola was a nobleman of aris- 
tocratic family, who had squandered his large patrimony, 
and now, as he was fond of saying, lived day by day “by 
trusting God.” A large portion of his oldest daughter’s 
earnings he wasted at the gaming table with dissolute 
nobles, relying with happy confidence upon the talent 
displayed also by his younger children, and on what he 
called “trust in God.” The gay, clever Italian was 
everywhere a welcome guest, and while Sophonisba 
toiled early and late, often without knowing how she 
was to obtain suitable food and clothing for her sisters 
and herself, his life was a series of banquets and festi- 
vals. Yet the noble girl retained the joyous courage 
10 


142 


A WORD, 


inherited from her father, nay, more — even in necessity 
she did not cease to take a lofty view of art, and never 
permitted anything to leave her studio till she considered 
it finished. 

At first Moor watched her silently, then he invited 
her to work in his studio, and avail herself of his advice 
and assistance. 

So she had become his pupil, his friend. 

Soon the young girl had no secrets from him, and 
the glimpses of her domestic life thus afforded touched 
him and brought her nearer and nearer to his heart. 

The old Cavaliere praised the lucky accident, and 
was ready to show himself obliging, when Moor offered 
to let him and his daughters occupy a house he had 
purchased, that it might be kept in a habitable condi- 
tion, and when the artist had induced the king to grant 
Sophonisba a larger annual salary, the father instantly 
bought a second horse. 

The young girl, in return for so many benefits, was 
gratefully devoted to the artist, but she would have 
loved him even without them. His society was her 
greatest pleasure. To be allowed to stay and paint 
with him, become absorbed in conversation about art, 
its problems, means and purposes, afforded her the 
highest, purest happiness. 

When she had discharged the duties- imposed upon 
her by her attendance upon the queen, her heart drew 
her to the man she loved and honored. When she left 
him, it always seemed as if she had been in church, as 
if her soul had been steeped in purity and was effulgent. 

Moor had hoped to find her sisters with her in Mad- 
rid, but the old Cavaliere had taken them away with 
him to Italy. His “trust in God” was rewarded, for 


ONLY A WORD. 


143 


he had inherited a large fortune. What should he do 
longer in Madrid ! To entertain the stiff, grave Span- 
iards and move them to laughter, was a far less pleasing 
occupation than to make merry with gay companions 
and be entertained himself at home. 

Sophonisba was provided for, and the beautiful, gay, 
famous maid of honor would have no lack of suitors. 
Against his daughter’s wish, he had given to the richest 
and most aristocratic among them, the Sicilian baron 
Don Fabrizio di Moncada, the hope of gaining her 
hand. “Conquer the fortress! When it yields — you 
can hold it,” were his last words; but the citadel re- 
mained impregnable, though the besieger could bring 
into the field as allies a knightly, aristocratic bearing, 
an unsullied character, a handsome, manly figure, win- 
ning manners, and great wealth. 

Ulrich felt a little disappointed not to find the five 
young girls, of whom he had dreamed, in Madrid ; it 
would have been pleasant to have some pretty compan- 
ions in the work now to begin. 

Adjoining the studio was a smaller apartment, sepa- 
rated from the former room by a corridor, that could be 
closed, and by a heavy curtain. Here a table, at which 
the five girls might easily have found room, was placed 
in a favorable light for Ulrich. He was to draw from 
plastic models, and there was no lack of these in the 
Alcazar, for here rose a high, three-story wing, to which 
when wearied by the intrigues of statecraft and the 
restraints of court etiquette, King Philip gladly retired, 
yielding himself to the only genial impulse of his gloomy 
soul, and enjoyed the noble forms of art. 

In the round hall on the lower floor countless plans, 
sketches, drawings and works of art were kept in walnut 


144 


A WORD, 


chests of excellent workmanship. Above this beauti- 
fully ornamented apartment was the library, and 
in the third story the large hall containing the master- 
pieces of Titian. 

The restless statesman, Philip, was no less eager to 
collect and obtain new and beautiful works by the great 
Venetian, than to defend and increase his own power 
and that of the Church. But these treasures were kept 
jealously guarded, accessible to no human being except 
himself and his artists. 

Philip was all and all to himself ; caring nothing 
for others, he did not deem it necessary, that they should 
share his pleasures. If anything outside the Church 
occupied a place in his regard, it was the artist, and 
therefore he did not grudge him what he denied to 
others. 

Not only in the upper story, but in the lower ones also 
antique and modern busts and statues were arranged in 
appropriate places, and Moor was at liberty to choose 
from among them, for the king permitted him to do 
what was granted to no one else. 

He often summoned him to the Titian Hall, and 
still more frequently rang the bell and entered the con- 
necting corridor, accessible to himself alone, which led 
from the rooms devoted to art and science to the treas- 
ury and studio, where he spent hours with Moor. 

Ulrich eagerly devoted himself to the work, and his 
master watched his labor like an attentive, strict, and 
faithful teacher ; meantime he carefully guarded against 
overtaxing the boy, allowed him to accompany him on 
many a ride, and advised him to look about the city. 

At first the lad liked to stroll through the streets and 
watch the long, brilliant processions, or timidly shrink 


ONLY A WORD. 


H5 

back when closely-muffled men, their figures wholly in- 
visible except the eyes and feet, bore a corpse along, or 
glided on mysterious missions through the streets. The 
bull-fights might have bewitched him, but he loved 
horses, and it grieved him to see the noble animals 
wounded and killed. 

He soon wearied of the civil and religious ceremo- 
nies, that might be witnessed nearly every day, and which 
always exerted the same power of attraction to the in- 
habitants of Madrid. Priests swarmed in the Alcazar, 
and soldiers belonging to every branch of military ser- 
vice, daily guarded or marched by the palace. 

On the journey he had met plenty of mules with 
gay plumes and tassels, oddly-dressed peasants and 
citizens. Gentlemen in brilliant court uniforms, princes 
and princesses he saw daily in the court-yards, on the 
stairs, and in the park of the palace. 

At Toulouse and in other cities, through which he 
had passed, life had been far more busy, active, and gay 
than in quiet Madrid, where everything went on as if 
people were on their way to church, where a cheerful 
face was rarely seen, and men and women knew of no 
sight more beautiful and attractive, than seeing poor 
Jews and heretics burned. 

Ulrich did not need the city; the Alcazar was 
a world in itself, and offered him everything he 
desired. 

He liked to linger in the stables, for there he could 
distinguish himself ; but it was also delightful to work, 
for Moor chose models and designs that pleased the 
lad, and Sophonisba Anguisciola, who often painted for 
hours in the studio by the master’s side, came to Ulrich 
in the intervals, looked at what he had finished, helped, 


146 


A WORD, 


praised, or scolded him, and never left him without a 
jest on her lips. 

True, he was often left to himself ; for the king some- 
times summoned the artist and then quitted the palace 
with him for several days, to visit secluded country- 
houses, and there — the old Hollander had told the lad 
— painted under Moor’s instructions. 

On the whole, there were new, strange, and surpris- 
ing things enough, to keep the sensation of “ Fortune,” 
alive in Ulrich’s heart. Only it was vexatious that he 
found it so hard to make himself intelligible to people, 
but this too was soon to be remedied, for the pupil ob- 
tained two companions. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Alonzo Sanchez Coello, a very distinguished 
Spanish artist, had his studio in the upper story of the 
treasury. The king was very friendly to him, and often 
took him also on his excursions. The gay, lively artist 
clung without envy, and with ardent reverence, to Moor, 
whose fellow-pupil he had been in Florence and Venice. 
During the Netherlander’s first visit to Madrid, he had 
not disdained to seek counsel and instruction from his 
senior, and even now frequently visited his studio, 
bringing with him his children Sanchez and Isabella as 
pupils, and watched the Master closely while he painted. 

At first Ulrich was not specially pleased with his 
new companions, for in the strangely visionary life he 
led, he had depended solely upon himself and “ Fortune,” 


ONLY A WORD. 


47 


and the figures living in h is imagination were the most 
enjoyable society to him. 

Formerly he had drawn eagerly in the morning, joy- 
ously anticipated Sophonisba’s visit, and then gazed out 
over his paper and dreamed. How delightful it had 
been to let his thoughts wander to his heart’s content. 
This could now be done no longer. 

So it happened, that at first he could feel no real 
confidence in Sanchez, who was three years his senior, 
for the latter’s thin limbs and close-cut dark hair made 
him look exactly like dark-browed Xaver. Therefore 
his relations with Isabella were all the more friendly. 

She was scarcely fourteen, a dear little creature, 
with awkward limbs, and a face so wonderfully changeful 
in expression, that it could not fail to be by turns pretty 
and repellent. She always had beautiful eyes; all her 
other features were unformed, and might grow charm- 
ing or exactly the reverse. When her work engrossed 
her attention, she bit her protruded tongue, and her 
raven-black hair, usually remarkably smooth, often be- 
came so oddly dishevelled, that she looked like a 
kobold ; when, on the other hand, she talked pleasantly 
or jested’ no one could help being pleased. 

The child was rarely gifted, and her method of work- 
ing was an exact contrast to that of the German lad. 
She progressed slowly, but finally accomplished some- 
thing admirable; what Ulrich impetuously began had a 
showy, promising aspect, but in the execution the great 
idea shrivelled, and the work diminished in merit in- 
stead of increasing. 

Sanchez Coello remained far behind the other two, 
but to make amends, he knew many things of which 
Ulrich’s uncorrupted soul had no suspicion. 


4 8 


A WORD, 


Little Isabella had been given by her mother, for a 
duenna, a watchful, ill-tempered widow, Senora Catalina, 
who never left the girl while she remained with Moor’s 
pupils. 

Receiving instruction with others urged Ulrich to ri- 
valry, and also improved his knowledge of Spanish. 
But he soon became familiar with the language in an- 
other way, for one day, as he came out of the stables, a 
thin man in black, priestly robes, advanced towards 
him, looked searchingly into his face, then greeted him 
as a countryman, declaring that it made him happy to 
speak his dear native tongue again. Finally, he invited 
the “artist” to visit him. His name was Magister 
Kochel and he lodged with the king’s almoner, for 
whom he was acting as clerk. 

The pallid man with the withered face, deep-set 
eyes and peculiar grin, which always showed the 
bluish-red gums above the teeth, did not please the 
boy, but the thought of being able to talk in his 
native language attracted him, and he went to the 
German’s. 

He soon thought that by so doing he was accom- 
plishing something good and useful, for the former of- 
fered to teach him to write and speak Spanish. Ulrich 
was glad to have escaped from school, and declined this 
proposal ; but when the German suggested that he 
should content himself with speaking the language, as- 
suring him that it could be accomplished without any 
difficulty, Ulrich consented and went daily at twilight to 
the Magister. 

Instruction began at once and was pleasant enough, 
for Kochel let him translate merry tales and love stories 
from French and Italian books, which he read aloud in 


ONLY A WORD. 


149 


German, never scolded him, and after the first half-hour 
always laid the volume aside to talk with him. 

Moor thought it commendable and right, for Ulrich 
to take upon himself the labor and constraint of study- 
ing a language, and promised, when the lessons were 
over, to give a fitting payment to the Magister, who 
seemed to have scanty means of livelihood. 

The master ought to have been well disposed to- 
wards worthy Kochel, for the latter was an enthusiastic 
admirer of his works. He ranked the Netherlander 
above Titian and the other great Italian artists, called 
him the worthy friend of gods and kings, and encour- 
aged his pupil to imitate him. 

“ Industry, industry ! ” cried the Magister. “ Only 
by industry is the summit of wealth and fame gained. 
To be sure, such success demands sacrifices. How 
rarely is the good man permitted to enjoy the blessing 
of mass. When did he go to church last ? ” 

Ulrich answered these and similar questions frankly 
and truthfully, and when Kochel praised the friendship 
uniting the artist to the king, calling them Orestes and 
Pylades, Ulrich, proud of the honor shown his master, 
told him how often Philip secretly visited the latter. 

At every succeeding interview Kochel asked, as if 
by chance, in the midst of a conversation about other 
things : “ Has the king honored you again ? ” or “ You 
happy people, it is reported that the king has shown 
you his face again.” 

This “you ” flattered Ulrich, for it allowed a ray of 
the royal favor to fall upon him also, so he soon in- 
formed his countryman, unasked, of every one of the 
monarch’s visits to the treasury. 

Weeks and months elapsed, 
r 


A WORD, 


* 5 ° 


Towards the close of his first year’s residence in 
Madrid, Ulrich spoke Spanish with tolerable fluency, 
and could easily understand his fellow-pupils; nay, be 
had even begun to study Italian. 

Sophonisba Anguisciola still spent all her leisure 
hours in the studio, painting or conversing with Moor. 
Various dignitaries and grandees also went in and out 
of the studio, and among them frequently appeared, in- 
deed usually when Sophonisba was present, her faithful 
admirer Don Fabrizio di Moncada. 

Once Ulrich, without listening, heard Moor through 
the open door of the school-room, represent to her, that 
it was unwise to reject a suitor like the baron ; he was a 
noble, high-minded gentleman and his love beyond 
question. 

Her answer was long in coming; at last she rose, 
saying in an agitated voice : “We know each other, 
Master; I know your kind intentions. And yet, yet! 
Let me remain what I am, however insignificant that 
may be. I like the baron, but what better gifts can 
marriage bestow, than I already possess ? My love be- 
longs to Art, and you — you are my friend . . . My sisters 
are my children. Have I not gained the right to call 
them so ? . I shall have no lack of duties towards them, 
when my father has squandered his inheritance. My 
noble queen will provide for my future, and I am neces- 
sary to her. My heart is filled — filled to the brim ; I do 
what I can, and is it not a beautiful thought, that I am 
permitted to be something to those I love ? Let me re- 
main your Sophonisba, and a free artist.” 

“ Yes, yes, yes ! Remain what you are, girl ! ” Moor 
exclaimed, and then for a long time silence reigned in 
the studio. 


ONLY A WORD. 


I 5 1 

Even before they could understand each other’s 
language, a friendly intercourse had existed between 
Isabella and her German fellow-pupil, for in leisure 
moments they had sketched each other more than 
once. 

These pictures caused much laughter and often occa- 
sional harmless scuffles between Ulrich and Sanchez, for 
the latter liked to lay hands on these portraits and 
turn them into hideous caricatures. 

Isabella often earned the artist’s unqualified praise, 
Ulrich sometimes received encouraging, sometimes re- 
proving, and sometimes even harsh words. The latter 
Moor always addressed to him in German, but they 
deeply wounded the lad, haunting him for days. 

The “ word ” still remained obedient to him. Only 
in matters relating to art, the power of “ fortune ” 
seemed to fail, and deny its service. 

When the painter set him difficult tasks, which he 
could not readily accomplish, he called upon the “word;” 
but the more warmly and fervently he did so, the more 
surely he receded instead of advancing. When, on the 
contrary, he became angered against “fortune,” re- 
proached, rejected it, and relied wholly on himself, he 
accomplished the hardest things and won Moor’s 
praise. 

He often thought, that he would gladly resign his 
untroubled, luxurious life, and all the other gifts of 
P'ortune, if he could only succeed in accomplishing 
what Moor desired him to attain in art. He knew and 
felt that this was the right goal ; but one thing was cer- 
tain, he could never attain it with pencil and charcoal. 
What his soul dreamed, what his mental vision beheld 
was colored. Drawing, perpetual drawing, became bur* 


5 2 


A WORD, 


densome, repulsive, hateful ; but with palette and brush 
in his hand he could not fail to become an artist, per- 
haps an artist like Titian. 

He already used colors in secret; Sanchez Coello 
had been the cause of his making the first trial. 

This precocious youth was suing for a fair girl’s 
favor, and made Ulrich his confidant. One day, when 
Moor and Sanchez’s father had gone with the king to 
Toledo, he took him to a balcony in the upper story of 
the treasury, directly opposite to the gate-keeper’s lodg- 
ings, and only separated by a narrow court-yard from 
the window, where sat pretty Carmen, the porter’s 
handsome daughter. 

The girl was always to be found here, for her father’s 
room was very dark, and she was compelled to em- 
broider priestly robes from morning till night. This 
pursuit brought in money, which was put to an excel- 
lent use by the old man, who offered sacrifices to his 
own comfort at the cook-shop, and enjoyed fish fried in 
oil with his Zamora wine. The better her father’s appe- 
tite was, the more industriously the daughter was 
obliged to embroider. Only on great festivals, or when 
an Auto-da-fe was proclaimed, was Carmen permitted to 
leave the palace with her old aunt ; yet she had already 
found suitors. Nineteen-year-old Sanchez did not in- 
deed care for her hand, but merely for her love, and 
when it began to grow dusk, he stationed himself on 
the balcony which he had discovered, made signs to 
her, and flung flowers or bonbons on her table. 

“ She is still coy,” said the young Spaniard, telling 
Ulrich to wait at the narrow door, which opened upon 
the balcony. “There sits the angel! Just look! I 
gave her the pomegranate blossom in her magnificent 


ONLY A WORD. 1 53 

hair — did you ever see more beautiful tresses? Take 
notice ! She’ll soon melt ; I know women ! ” 

Directly after a bouquet of roses fell into the em- 
broiderer’s lap. Carmen uttered a low cry, and per- 
ceiving Sanchez, motioned him away with her head and 
hand, finally turning her back upon him. 

“ She’s in a bad humor to-day,” said Sanchez ; “ but 
I beg you to notice that she’ll keep my roses. She’ll 
wear one to-morrow in her hair or on her bosom ; what 
will you wager ? ” 

“ That may be,” answered Ulrich. “ She probably 
has no money to buy any for herself.” 

To be sure, the next day at twilight Carmen wore a 
rose in her hair. 

Sanchez exulted, and drew Ulrich out upon the bal- 
cony. The beauty glanced at him, blushed, and re- 
turned the fair-haired boy’s salutation with a slight bend 
of the head. 

The gate-keeper’s little daughter was a pretty child, 
and Ulrich had no fear of doing what Sanchez ven- 
tured. 

On the third day he again accompanied him to the 
balcony, and this time, after silently calling upon the 
“ word,” pressed his hand upon his heart, just as Car- 
men looked at him. 

The young girl blushed again, waved her fan, and 
then bent her little head so low, that it almost touched 
the embroidery. 

The next evening she secretly kissed her fingers to 
Ulrich. 

From this time the young lover preferred to seek 
the balcony without Sanchez. He would gladly have 
called a few tender words across, or sung to his lute, 


1 54 


A WORD, 


but that would not do, for people were constantly pass- 
ing to and fro in the court-yard. 

Then the thought occurred to him, that he could 
speak to the fair one by means of a picture. 

A small panel was soon found, he had plenty of 
brushes and colors to choose from, and in a few min- 
utes, a burning heart, transfixed by an arrow, was com- 
pleted. But the thing looked horribly red and ugly, 
so he rejected it, and painted — imitating one of Titian’s 
angels, which specially pleased him — a tiny Cupid, hold- 
ing a heart in his hand. 

He had learned many things from the master, and 
as the little figure rounded into shape, it afforded him 
so much pleasure, that he could not leave it, and finished 
it the third day. 

It had not entered his mind to create a completed 
work of art, but the impetuosity of youth, revelling in 
good fortune, had guided his brush. The little Cupid 
bent joyously forward, drawing the right leg back, as if 
making a bow. Finally Ulrich draped about him a 
black and yellow scarf, such as he had often seen the 
young Austrian archduke wear, and besides the pierced 
heart, placed a rose in the tiny, ill-drawn hand. 

He could not help laughing at his “ masterpiece ” 
and hurried out on the balcony with the wet paint- 
ing, to show it to Carmen. She laughed heartily 
too, answered his salutations with tender greetings, 
then laid aside her embroidery and went back into 
the room, but only to immediately reappear at the 
window again, holding up a prayer-book and extending 
towards him the eight fingers of her industrious little 
hands. 

He motioned that he understood her, and at eight 


ONLY A WORD. 


*55 


o’clock the next morning was kneeling by her side at 
mass, where he took advantage of a favorable opportu- 
nity to whisper: “Beautiful Carmen!” 

The young girl blushed, but he vainly awaited an 
answer. Carmen now rose, and when Ulrich also stood 
up to permit her to pass, she dropped her prayer-book, 
as if by accident. He stooped with her to pick it up, 
and .when their heads nearly touched, she whispered 
hurriedly : “ Nine o’clock this evening in the shell 
grotto ; the garden will be open.” 

Carmen awaited him at the appointed place. 

At first Ulrich’s heart throbbed so loudly and pas- 
sionately, that he could find no words ; but the young 
girl helped him, by telling him that he was a handsome 
fellow, whom it would be easy to love. 

Then he remembered the vows of tenderness he had 
translated at Kochel’s, falteringly repeated them, and 
fell on one knee before her, like all the heroes in adven- 
tures and romances. 

And behold ! Carmen did exactly the same as the 
young ladies whose acquaintance he had made at his 
teacher’s, begged him to rise, and when he willingly 
obeyed the command — for he wore thin silk stockings 
and the grotto was paved with sharp stones — drew him 
to her heart, and tenderly stroked his hair back from 
his face with her dainty fingers, while he gladly per- 
mitted her to press her soft young lips to his. 

All this was delightful, and he had no occasion to 
speak at all ; yet Ulrich felt timid and nervous. It 
seemed like a deliverance when the footsteps of the 
guard were heard, and Carmen drew him away through 
the gate with her into the court-yard. 

Before the little door leading into her father’s room 


* 5 6 


A WORD, 


she again pressed his hand, and then vanished as swiftly 
as a shadow. 

Ulrich remained alone, pacing slowly up and down 
before the treasury, for he knew that he had done some- 
thing very wrong, and did not venture to appear before 
the artist. 

When he entered the dark garden, he had again 
summoned “ fortune” to his aid; but now it would have 
pleased him better, if it had been less willing to come 
to his assistance. 

Candles were burning in the studio, and Moor sat 
in his arm-chair, holding — Ulrich would fain have hid- 
den himself in the earth — the boy’s Cupid in his hands. 

The young culprit wanted to slip past his teacher 
with a low “ good night,” but the latter called him, and 
pointing to the picture, smilingly asked : “ Did you 
paint this ?” 

Ulrich nodded, blushing furiously. 

The artist eyed him from top to toe, saying : “ Well, 
well, it is really very pretty. I suppose it is time now 
for us to begin to paint.” 

The lad did not know what had happened, for a 
few weeks before Moor had harshly refused, when he 
asked the same thing now voluntarily offered. 

Scarcely able to control his surprise and joy, he 
bent over the artist’s hand to kiss it, but the latter with- 
drew it, gazed steadily into his eyes with paternal affec- 
tion, and said : “We will try, my boy, but we must not 
give up drawing, for that is the father of our art. Draw- 
ing keeps us within the bounds assigned to what is true 
and beautiful. The morning you must spend as before; 
after dinner you shall be rewarded by using colors.” 

This plan was followed, and the pupil’s first love- 


ONLY A WORD. 


157 

Affair bore still another fruit — it gave a different form 
to his relations with Sanchez. The feeling that he had 
stood in his way and abused his confidence sorely dis- 
turbed Ulrich, so he did everything in his power to 
please his companion. 

He did not see the fair Carmen again, and in a few 
weeks the appointment was forgotten, for painting under 
Moor’s instruction absorbed him as nothing in his life 
had ever done before, and few things did after. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Ulrich was now seventeen, and had been allowed 
to paint for four months. 

Sanchez Coello rarely appeared in the studio, for he 
had gone to study with the architect, Herrera; Isabella 
vied with Ulrich, but was speedily outstripped by the 
German. 

It seemed as if he had been bom with the power to 
use the brush, and the young girl watched his progress 
with unfeigned pleasure. When Moor harshly con- 
demned his drawing, her kind eyes grew dim with tears; 
if the master looked at his studies with an approving 
smile, and showed them to Sophonisba with words of 
praise, she was as glad as if they had been bestowed 
upon herself. 

The Italian came daily to the treasury as usual, to 
paint, talk or play chess with Moor; she rejoiced at 
Ulrich’s progress, and gave him many a useful sug- 
gestion. 

When the young artist once complained that he had 
11 


A WORD, 


158 

no good models, she gaily offered to sit to him. This 
was a new and unexpected piece of good fortune. 

Day and night he thought only of Sophonisba. 

The sittings began. 

The Italian wore a red dress, trimmed with gold 
embroidery, and a high white lace ruff, that almost 
touched her cheeks. Her wavy brown hair clung 
closely to the beautiful oval head, its heavy braids cov- 
ering the back of the neck ; tiny curls fluttered around 
her ears and harmonized admirably with the lovely, 
mischievous expression of the mouth, that won all 
hearts. To paint the intelligent brown eyes was no 
easy matter, and she requested Ulrich to be careful 
about her small, rather prominent chin, which was any- 
thing but beautiful, and not make her unusually high, 
broad forehead too conspicuous; she had only put on 
the pearl diadem to relieve it. 

The young artist set about this task with fiery im- 
petuosity, and the first sketch surpassed all expecta- 
tions. 

Don Fabrizio thought the picture “ startlingly ” 
like the original. Moor was not dissatisfied, but feared 
that in the execution his pupil’s work would lose the 
bold freshness, which lent it a certain charm in his eyes, 
and was therefore glad when the bell rang, and soon 
after the king appeared, to whom he intended to show 
Ulrich’s work. 

Philip had not been in the studio for a long time, 
but the artist had reason to expect him ; for yesterday 
the monarch must have received his letter, requesting 
that he would graciously grant him permission to leave 
Madrid. 

Moor had remained in Spain long enough, and his 


ONLY A WORD. 


159 


wife and child were urging his return. Yet departure 
was hard for him on Sophonisba’s account ; but pre- 
cisely because he felt that she was more to him than a 
beloved pupil and daughter, he had resolved to hasten 
his leave-taking. 

All present were quickly dismissed, the bolts were 
drawn and Philip appeared. 

He looked paler than usual, worn and weary. 

Moor greeted him respectfully, saying : “ It is long 
since Your Majesty has visited the treasury.” 

“ Not ‘Your Majesty;’ to you I am Philip,” replied 
the king. “ And you wish to leave me, Antonio ! Re- 
call your letter! You must not go now.” 

The sovereign, without waiting for a reply, now 
burst into complaints about the tiresome, oppressive 
duties of his office, the incapacity of the magistrates, 
the selfishness, malice and baseness of men. He la- 
mented that Moor was a Netherlander, and not a Span- 
iard, called him the only friend he possessed among the 
rebellious crew in Holland and Flanders, and stopped 
him when he tried to intercede for his countrymen, 
though repeatedly assuring him that he found in his 
society his best pleasure, his only real recreation ; Moor 
must stay, out of friendship, compassion for him, a slave 
in the royal purple. 

After the artist had promised not to speak of de- 
parture during the next few days, Philip began to paint 
a saint, which Moor had sketched, but at the end of 
half an hour he threw down his brush. He called himself 
negligent of duty, because he was following his inclina- 
tion, instead of using his brain and hands in the service 
of the State and Church. Duty was his tyrant, his op- 
pressor. When the day-laborer threw his hoe over his 


i6o 


A WORD, 


shoulder, the poor rascal was rid of toil and anxiety ; 
but they pursued him everywhere, night and day. His 
son was a monster, his subjects were rebels or cringing 
hounds. Bands of heretics, like moles or senseless 
brutes, undermined and assailed the foundation of the 
throne and safeguard of society : the Church. To crush 
and vanquish was his profession, hatred his reward on 
earth. Then, after a moment’s silence, he pointed tow- 
ards heaven, exclaiming as if in ecstasy : “ There, 
there! with Him, with Her, with the Saints, for whom I 
fight !” 

The king had rarely come to the treasury in such a 
mood. He seemed to feel this too, and after recovering 
his self-control, said : 

“ It pursues me even here, I cannot succeed in get- 
ting the right coloring to-day. Have you finished any- 
thing new ?” 

Moor now pointed out to the king a picture by his 
own hand, and after Philip had gazed at it long and 
appreciatively, criticising it with excellent judgment, the 
artist led him to Ulrich’s portrait of Sophonisba, and 
asked, not without anxiety: “What does Your Majesty 
say to this attempt ?” 

“ Hm !” observed the monarch. “A little of Moor, 
something borrowed from Titian, yet a great deal that 
is original. The bluish-grey leaden tone comes from 
your shop. The thing is a wretched likeness ! Sopho- 
nisba resembles a gardener’s boy. Who made it ?” 

“ My pupil, Ulrich Navarrete.” 

“ How long has he been painting ?” 

“ For several months, Sire.” 

“ And you think he will be an artist of note ?” 

“ Perhaps so. In many respects he surpasses mj 


ONLY A WORD. 


l6l 

expectations, in others he falls below them. He is a 
strange fellow.” 

“ He is ambitious, at any rate.” 

“No small matter for the future artist. What he 
eagerly begins has a very grand and promising aspect ; 
but it shrinks in the execution. His mind seizes and 
appropriates what he desires to represent, at a single 
hasty grasp ” 

“ Rather too vehement, I should think.” 

“No fault at his age. What he possesses makes me 
less anxious, than what he lacks. I cannot yet discover 
the thoughtful artist-spirit in him.” 

“ You mean the spirit, that refines what it has once 
taken, and in quiet meditation arranges lines, and as- 
signs each color to its proper place, in short your own 
art-spirit.” 

“ And yours also, Sire. If you had begun to paint 
early, you would have possessed what Ulrich lacks.” 

“ Perhaps so. Besides, his defect is one of those 
which will vanish with years. In your school, with 
zeal and industry ” 

“ He will obtain, you think, what he lacks. I 
thought so too ! But as I was saying : he is queerly 
constituted. What you have admitted to me more 
than once, the point we have started from in a hundred 
conversations — he cannot grasp: form is not the es- 
sence of art to him.” 

The king shrugged his shoulders and pointed to his 
forehead ; but Moor continued : “ Everything he creates 
must reflect anew, what he experienced at the first sight 
of the subject. Often the first sketch succeeds, but if it 
fails, he seeks without regard to truth and accuracy, by 
means of trivial, strange expedients, to accomplish his 


162 


A WORD, 


purpose. Sentiment, always sentiment ! Line and tone 
are everything; that is our motto. Whoever masters 
them, can express the grandest things.” 

“ Right, right ! Keep him drawing constantly. 
Give him mouths, eyes, and hands to paint.” 

“ That must be done in Antwerp.” 

“ I’ll hear nothing about Antwerp ! You will stay, 
Antonio, you will stay. Your wife and child — all 
honor to them. I have seen your wife’s portrait. Good, 
nourishing bread ! Here you have ambrosia and manna. 
You know whom I mean; Sophonisba is attached to 
you ; the queen says so.” 

“ And I gratefully feel it. It is hard to leave your 
gracious Majesty and Sophonisba ; but bread, Sire, bread 
— is necessary to life. I shall leave friends here, dear 
friends — it will be difficult, very difficult, to find new 
ones at my age.” 

“ It is the same with me, and for that very reason 
you will stay, if you are my friend ! No more ! Farewell, 
Antonio, till we meet again, perhaps to-morrow, in spite 
of a chaos of business. Happy fellow that you are ! 
In the twinkling of an eye you will be revelling in colors 
again, while the yoke, the iron yoke, weighs me down.” 

Moor thought he should be able to work undisturbed 
after the king had left him, and left the door unbolted. 

He was standing before the easel after dinner, en- 
gaged in painting, when the door of the corridor lead- 
ing to the treasury was suddenly flung open, without 
the usual warning, and Philip again entered the studio. 

This time his cheeks wore a less pallid hue than in 
the morning, and his gait showed no traces of the 
solemn gravity, which had become a second nature to 
him ; on the contrary he was gay and animated. 


ONLY A WORD. 


1^3 

But the expression did not suit him; it seemed as if 
he had donned a borrowed, foreign garb, in which he 
was ill at ease and could not move freely. 

Waving a letter in his right hand, he pointed to 
it with his left, exclaiming : 

“ They are coming. This time two marvels at once. 
Our Saviour praying in the garden of Gethsemane, and 
Diana at the Bath. Look, look ! Even this is a treasure. 
These lines are from Titian’s own hand.” 

“ A peerless old man,” Moor began; but Philip im- 
petuously interrupted : “ Old man, old man ? A youth, 
a man, a vigorous man. How soon he will be ninety, 
and yet — yet; who will equal him ?” 

As he uttered the last words, the monarch stop- 
ped before Sophonisba’s portrait, and pointing to it 
with the scornful chuckle peculiar to him, continued 
gaily : 

“ There the answer meets me directly. That red ! 
The Venetian’s laurels seem to have turned your high- 
flown pupil’s head. A hideous picture !” 

“ It doesn’t seem so bad to me,” replied Moor. 
“ There is even something about it I like.” 

“You, you?” cried Philip. “Poor Sophonisba! 
Those carbuncle eyes ! And a mouth, that looks as if 
she could eat nothing but sugar-plums. I don’t know 
what tickles me to-day. Give me the palette. The out- 
lines are tolerably good, the colors fairly shriek. But 
what boy can understand a woman, a woman like your 
friend ! I’ll paint over the monster, and if the picture 
isn’t Sophonisba, it may serve for a naval battle.” 

The king had snatched the palette from the artist’s 
hand, dipped his brush in the paint, and smiling pleas- 
antly, was about to set to work ; but Moor placed him- 


164 


A WORD, 


self between the sovereign and the canvas, exclaiming 
gaily : “ Paint me, Philip; but spare the portrait.” 

“ No, no ; it will do for the naval battle,” chuckled 
the king, and while he pushed the artist back, the latter, 
carried away by the monarch’s unusual freedom, struck 
him lightly on the shoulder with the maul-stick. 

The sovereign started, his lips grew white, he drew 
his small but stately figure to its full height. His un- 
constrained bearing was instantly transformed into one 
of unapproachable, icy dignity. 

Moor felt what was passing in the ruler’s mind. 

A slight shiver ran through his frame, but his calm- 
ness remained unshaken, and before the insulted monarch 
found time to give vent to his indignation in words, he 
said quickly, as if the offence he had committed was not 
worth mentioning : 

“ Queer things are done among comrades in art. 
The painter’s war is over! Begin the naval battle, 
Sire, or still better, lend more charm and delicacy to the 
corners of the mouth. The pupil’s worst failure is in 
the chin ; more practised hands might be wrecked on 
that cliff. Those eyes! Perhaps they sparkled just 
in that way, but we are agreed in one thing : the por- 
trait ought not to represent the original at a given mo- 
ment, ruled by a certain feeling or engaged in a special 
act, but should express the sum of the spiritual, intellec- 
tual and personal attributes of the subject — his soul 
and person, mind and character — feelings and nature. 
King Philip, pondering over complicated political com- 
binations, would be a fascinating historical painting, but 
no likeness. . . 

“ Certainly not,” said the king in a low voice ; “ the 
portrait must reveal the inmost spirit; mine must 


ONLY A WORD. 


i6 5 

show how warmly Philip loves art and his artists. 
Take the palette, I beg. It is for you, the great Master, 
not for me, the overworked, bungling amateur, to 
correct the work of talented pupils.” 

There was a hypocritical sweetness in the tone of 
these words which had not escaped the artist. 

Philip had long been a master in the school of dis- 
simulation, but Moor knew him thoroughly, and under- 
stood the art of reading his heart. 

This mode of expression from the king alarmed him 
more than a passionate outburst of rage. He only 
spoke in this way when concealing what was seething 
within. Besides, there was another token. The Neth- 
erlander had intentionally commenced a conversation 
on art, and it was almost unprecedented to find Philip 
disinclined to enter into one. The blow had been scarcely 
perceptible, but Majesty will not endure a touch. 

Philip did not wish to quarrel with the artist now, 
but he would remember the incident, and woe betide 
him, if in some gloomy hour the sovereign should recall 
the insult offered him here. Even the lightest blow 
from the paw of this slinking tiger could inflict deep 
wounds — even death. 

These thoughts had darted with the speed of light- 
ning through the artist’s mind, and still lingered there 
as, respectfully declining to take the palette, he replied: 
u I beseech you, Sire, keep the brush and colors, and 
correct what you dislike.” 

“ That would mean to repaint the whole picture, and 
my time is limited,” answered Philip. “You are re- 
sponsible for your pupils’ faults, as well as for your 
own offences. Every one is granted, allowed, offered, 
what is his due ; is it not so, dear master ? Another 


1 66 


A WORD, 


time, then, you shall hear from me ! ” In the door- 
way the monarch kissed his hand to the artist, then 
disappeared. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Moor remained alone in the studio. How could he 
have played such a boyish prank ! 

He was gazing anxiously at the floor, for he had good 
reason to be troubled, though the reflection that he had 
been alone with the king, and the unprecedented act 
had occurred without witnesses, somewhat soothed him. 
He could not know that a third person, Ulrich, had be- 
held the reckless, fateful contest. 

The boy had been drawing in the adjoining room, 
when loud voices were heard in the studio. He cher- 
ished a boundless reverence, bordering upon idolatry, 
for his first model, the beautiful Sophonisba, and sup- 
posing that it was she, discussing works of art with 
Moor, as often happened, he opened the door, pushed 
back the curtain, and saw the artist tap the chuckling 
king on the arm. 

The scene was a merry one, yet a thrill of fear ran 
through his limbs, and he went back to his plaster 
model more rapidly than he had come. 

At nightfall Moor sought Sophonisba. He had 
been invited to a ball given by the queen, and knew 
that he should find the maid of honor among Isabella’s 
attendants. 

The magnificent apartments were made as light as 
day by thousands of wax-candles in silver and bronze 


ONLY A WORD. 


167 


candelabra; costly Gobelin tapestry and purple Flan- 
ders hangings covered the walls, and the bright hues of 
the paintings were reflected from the polished floors, 
flooded with brilliant light. 

No dancing had ever been permitted at the court 
before Philip’s marriage with the French princess, who 
had been accustomed to greater freedom of manners ; 
now a ball was sometimes given in the Alcazar. The 
first person who had ventured to dance the gaillarde be- 
fore the eyes of the monarch and his horrified courtiers, 
was Sophonisba — her partner was Duke Gonzaga. 
Strangely enough, the gayest lady at the court was the 
very person, who gave the gossips the least occasion 
for scandal. 

A gavotte was just over, as Moor entered the superb 
rooms. In the first rank of the brilliant circle of dis- 
tinguished ecclesiastics, ambassadors and grandees, who 
surrounded the queen, stood the Austrian archdukes, 
and the handsome, youthful figures of Alexander of 
Parma and of Don Juan, the half-brother of King Philip. 

Don Carlos, the deformed heir to the throne, was 
annoying with his coarse jests some ladies of the court, 
who were holding their fans before their faces, yet. did 
not venture to make the sovereign’s son feel their dis- 
pleasure. 

Velvet, silk and jewels glittered, delicate laces rose 
and drooped around the necks and hands of the ladies 
and gentlemen. Floating curls, sparkling eyes, noble 
and attractive features enslaved the eye, but the necks, 
throats and arms of the court dames were closely con- 
cealed under high ruffs and lace frills, stiff bodices and 
puffed sleeves. 

A subtile perfume filled the illuminated air of these 


A WORD, 


i68 

festal halls; amidst the flirting of light fans, laughter, 
gay conversation, and slander reigned supreme. In an 
adjoining room golden zechins fell rattling and ringing 
on the gaming-table. 

The morose, bigoted court, hampered by rigid for- 
mality, had been invaded by worldly pleasure, which 
disported itself unabashed by the presence of the dis- 
tinguished prelates in violet and scarlet robes, who 
paced with dignified bearing through the apartments, 
greeting the more prominent ladies and grandees. 

A flourish of trumpets was borne on the air, and 
Philip appeared. The cavaliers, bowing very low, sud- 
denly stepped back from the fair dames, and the ladies 
courtesied to the floor. Perfect silence followed. 

It seemed as if an icy wind had passed over the 
flower-beds and bent all the blossoms at once. 

After a few minutes the gentlemen stood erect, and 
the ladies rose again, but even the oldest duchesses 
were not allowed the privilege of sitting in their sov- 
ereign’s presence. 

Gayety was stifled, conversation was carried on in 
whispers. 

The young people vainly waited for the signal to 
dance. 

It was long since Philip had been so proudly con- 
temptuous, so morose ks he was to-night. Experienced 
courtiers noticed that His Majesty held his head higher 
than usual, and kept out of his way. He walked as if 
engaged in scrutinizing the frescos on the ceiling, but 
nothing that he wished to see escaped his notice, and 
when he perceived Moor, he nodded graciously and 
smiled pleasantly upon him for a moment, but did not, 
as usual, beckon him to approach. 


ONLY A WORD. 169 

This did not escape the artist or Sophonisba, whom 
Moor had informed of what had occurred. 

He trusted her as he did himself, and she deserved 
his confidence. 

The clever Italian had shared his anxiety, and as 
soon as the king entered another apartment, she beck- 
oned to Moor and held a long conversation with him 
in a window-recess. She advised him to keep everything 
in readiness for departure, and she undertook to watch 
and give him timely warning. 

It was long after midnight, when Moor returned to 
his rooms. He sent the sleepy servant to rest, and 
paced anxiously to and fro for a short time ; then he 
pushed Ulrich’s portrait of Sophonisba nearer the 
mantel-piece, where countless candles were burning in 
lofty sconces. 

This was his friend, and yet it was not. The thing 
lacking — yes, the king was right — was incomprehen- 
sible to a boy. 

We cannot represent, what we are unable to feel. 

Yet Philip’s censure had been too severe. With a 
few strokes of the brush Moor expected to make this 
picture a soul mirror of the beloved girl, from whom it 
was hard, unspeakably hard for him to part. 

“ More than fifty !” he thought, a melancholy smile 
hovering around his mouth. — “ More than fifty, an old 
husband and father, and yet — yet — good nourishing 
bread at home — God bless it, Heaven preserve it ! It 
only this girl were my daughter ! How long the human 
heart retains its functional power! Perhaps love is 
the pith of life — when it dries, the tree withers too !” 

Still absorbed in thought, Moor had seized his 
palette, and at intervals added a few short, almost im- 


A WORD, 


170 

perceptible, strokes to the mouth, eyes, and delicate nos- 
trils of the portrait, before which he sat — but these few 
strokes lent charm and intellectual expression to his 
pupil’s work. 

When he at last rose and looked at what he had 
done, he could not help smiling, and asking himself 
how it was possible to imitate, with such trivial materials, 
the noblest possessions of man : mind and soul. Both 
now spoke to the spectator from these features. The 
right words were easy to the master, and with them he 
had given the clumsy sentence meaning and signifi- 
cance. 

The next morning Ulrich found Moor before So- 
phonisba’s portrait. The pupil’s sleep had been no less 
restless than the master’s, for the former had done some- 
thing which lay heavy on his heart. 

After being an involuntary witness of the scene in the 
studio the day before he had taken a ride with Sanchez and 
had afterwards gone to Kochel’s to take a lessson. True, 
he now spoke Spanish with tolerable fluency and knew 
something of Italian, but Kochel entertained him so 
well, that he still visited him several times a week. 

On this occasion, there was no translating. The 
German first kindly upbraided him for his long ab- 
sence, and then, after the conversation had turned upon 
his painting and Moor, sympathizingly asked what 
truth there was in the rumor, that the king had not 
visited the artist for a long time and had withdrawn his 
favor from him. 

“ Withdrawn his favor !” Ulrich joyously exclaimed. 
“ They are like two brothers ! They wrestled together 
to-day, and the master, in all friendship, struck His 
Majesty a blow with the maul-stick. . . . But — for 


ONLY A WORD. 


171 

Heaven’s sake ! — you will swear — fool, that I am — 
you will swear not to speak of it !” 

“ Of course I will !” Kochel exclaimed with a loud 
laugh. “ My hand upon it Navarrete. I’ll keep 
silence, but you! Don’t gossip about that! Noton 
any account! The jesting blow might do the master 
harm. Excuse me for to-day ; there is a great deal of 
writing to be done for the almoner.” 

Ulrich went directly back to the studio. The convic- 
tion that he had committed a folly, nay, a crime, had 
taken possession of him directly after the last word es- 
caped his lips, and now tortured him more and more. 
If Kochel, who was a very ordinary man, should not 
keep the secret, what might not Moor suffer from his 
treachery ! The lad was usually no prattler, yet now, 
merely to boast of his master’s familiar intercourse 
with the king, he had forgotten all caution. 

After a restless night, his first thought had been to 
look at his portrait of Sophonisba. The picture lured, 
bewitched, enthralled him with an irresistible spell. 

Was this really his work ? 

He recognized every stroke of the brush. And yet ! 
Those thoughtful eyes, the light on the lofty brow, the 
delicate lips, which seemed about parting to utter some 
wise or witty word — he had not painted them, never, 
never could he have accomplished such a masterpiece. 
He became very anxious. Had “ Fortune,” which usually 
left him in the lurch when creating, aided him on this 
occasion ? Last evening, before he went to bed, the picture 
had been very different. Moor rarely painted by candle- 
light and he had heard him come home late, yet now — 
now 

He was roused from these thoughts by the artist, who 


12 


1 7 2 


A WORD, 


had been feasting his eyes a long time on the handsome 
lad, now rapidly developing into a youth, as he stood 
before the canvas as if spellbound. He felt what was 
passing in the awakening artist-soul, for a similar inci- 
dent had happened to himself, when studying with his 
old master, Schorel. 

“ What is the matter ?” asked Moor as quietly as 
usual, laying his hand upon the arm of his embarrassed 
pupil. “ Your work seems to please you remarkably.” 

“ It is — I don’t know ” — stammered Ulrich. “ It 
seems as if in the night ” 

“That often happens,” interrupted the master. “If 
a man devotes himself earnestly to his profession, and 
says to himself: 1 Art shall be everything to me, all else 
trivial interruptions,’ invisible powers aid him, and when 
he sees in the morning what he has created the day be- 
fore, he imagines a miracle has happened.” 

At these words Ulrich grew red and pale by turns. 
At last, shaking his head, he murmured in an under- 
tone: “Yes, but those shadows at the corners of the 
mouth — do you see? — that light on the brow, and 
there — just look at the nostrils — I certainly did not 
paint those.” 

“ I don’t think them so much amiss,” replied Moor. 
“ Whatever friendly spirits now work for you at night, 
you must learn in Antwerp to paint in broad day at any 
hour.” 

“ In Antwerp ?” 

“We shall prepare for departure this very day. It 
must be done with the utmost privacy. When Isabella 
has gone, pack your best clothes in the little knapsack. 
Perhaps we shall leave secretly ; we have remained in 
Madrid long enough. Keep yourself always in readb 


ONLY A WORD. 


*7 3 


■ness. No one, do you hear, no human being, not even 
the servants, must suspect what is going on. I know 
you ; you are no babbler.” 

The artist suddenly paused and turned pale, for 
men’s loud, angry voices were heard outside the door 
of the studio. 

Ulrich too was startled. 

The master’s intention of leaving Madrid had pleased 
him, for it would withdraw the former from the danger 
that might result from his own imprudence. But 
as the strife in the anteroom grew louder, he already 
saw the alguazils forcing their way into the studio. 

Moor went towards the door, but it was thrown 
wide open ere he reached it, and a bearded lansquenet 
crossed the threshold. 

Laughing scornfully, he shouted a few derisive words 
at the French servants who had tried to stop him, then 
turning to the artist, and throwing back his broad chest, 
he held out his arms towards Moor, with passionate ar- 
dor, exclaiming: “These French flunkies — the varlets, 
tried to keep me from waiting upon my benefactor, my 
friend, the great Moor, to show my reverence for him. 
How you stare at me, Master ! Have you forgotten 
Christmas-day at Emmendingen, and Hans Eitelfritz 
from Colin on the Spree ?” 

Every trace of anxiety instantly vanished from the 
face of the artist, who certainly had not recognized in 
this braggart the modest companion of those days. 

Eitelfritz was strangely attired, so gaily and oddly 
dressed, that he could not fail to be conspicuous even 
among his comrades. One leg of his breeches, striped 
with red and blue, reached far below his knee, while 
the other, striped with yellow and green, enclosed the 
12 


*74 


A WORfc, 


upper part of the limb, like a full muff. Then how 
many puffs, slashes and ribbons adorned his doublet! 
What gay plumes decked the pointed edge of his cap. 

Moor gave the faithful fellow a friendly welcome, 
and expressed his pleasure at meeting him so hand- 
somely equipped. He held his head higher now, than 
he used to do under the wagon-tilt and in quarters, and 
doubtless he had earned a right to do so. 

“ The fact is,” replied Hans Eitelfritz, “ I’ve received 
double pay for the past nine months, and take a differ- 
ent view of life from that of a poor devil of a man-at- 
arms who goes fighting through the country. You know 
the ditty : 

“ ‘ There is one misery on earth, 

Well, well for him, who knows it not 1 
With beggar’s staff to wander forth, 

Imploring alms from spot to spot.’ 

** And the last verse : 

“ ' And shall we ne’er receive our due ? 

Will our sore trials never end ? 

Leader to victory, be true, 

Come quickly, death, beloved friend.’ 

“ I often sang it in those days ; but now : What 
does the world cost? A thousand zechins is not too 
much for me to pay for it ! ” 

“ Have you gained booty, Hans ?” 

“ Better must come ; but I’m faring tolerably well 
Nothing but feasting! Three of us came here from 
Venice through Lombardy, by ship from Genoa to Bar- 
celona, and thence through this barren, stony country 
here to Madrid.” 

“ To take service ?” 


ONLY A WORD. 


*75 


“ No, indeed. I’m satisfied with my company and 
regiment. We brought some pictures here, painted by 
the great master, Titian, whose fame must surely have 
reached you. See this little purse ! hear its jingle — it’s 
all gold ! If any one calls King Philip a niggard again, 
I’ll knock his teeth down his throat.” 

“ Good tidings, good reward !” laughed Moor. 
“ Have you had board and lodging too ?” 

“ A bed fit for the Roman Emperor, — and as for 
the rest? — I told you, nothing but feasting. Unluckily, 
the fun will be all over to-night, but to go without pay- 
ing my respects to you Zounds ! is that the little 

fellow — the Hop-o’my-Thumb — who pressed forward 
to the muster- table at Emmendingen ?” 

“ Certainly, certainly t ” 

“Zounds, he has grown. We’ll gladly enlist you 
now, young sir. Can you remember me ?” 

“ Of course I do,” replied Ulrich. “ You sang the 
song about ‘ good fortune ’” 

“Have you recollected that ?” asked the lansquenet. 
“Foolish stuff! Believe it or not, I composed the 
merry little thing when in great sorrow and poverty, 
just to warm my heart. Now I’m prosperous, and can 
rarely succeed in writing a verse. Fires are not needed 
in summer.” 

“ Where have you been lodged ?” 

“Here in the ‘old cat.’ That’s a good name for 
this Goliath’s palace.” 

When Eitelfritz had enquired about the jester and 
drunk a goblet of wine with Moor and Ulrich, he took 
leave of them both, and soon after the artist went to the 
city alone. 

At the usual hour Isabella Coello came with her 


i 7 6 


A WORD, 


duenna to the studio, and instantly noticed the change 
Sophonisba’s portrait had undergone. 

Ulrich stood beside her before the easel, while she 
examined his work. 

The young girl gazed at it a long, long time, with- 
out a word, only once pausing in her scrutiny to ask : 
“ And you, you painted this — without the master? ” 

Ulrich shook his head, saying, in an undertone : “ I 
suppose he thinks it is my own work; and yet — I can’t 
understand it.” 

“ But I can,” she eagerly exclaimed, still gazing in- 
tently at the portrait. 

At last, turning her round, pleasant face towards 
him, she looked at him with tears in her eyes, saying so 
affectionately that the innermost depths of Ulrich’s 
heart were stirred : “ How glad I am 1 I could never 
accomplish such a work. You will become a great 
artist, a very distinguished one, like Moor. Take notice, 
you surely will. How beautiful that is ! — I can find no 
words to express my admiration.” 

At these words the blood mounted to Ulrich’s brain, 
and either the fiery wine he had drunk, or the delighted 
girl’s prophetic words, or both, fairly intoxicated him. 
Scarcely knowing what he said or did, he seized 
Isabella’s little hand, impetuously raised his curly head, 
and enthusiastically exclaimed : “ Hear me ! your proph- 
ecy shall be fulfilled, Belica ; I will be an artist. Art, Art 
alone! The master said everything else is vain — 
trivial. Yes, I feel, I am certain, that the master is right.” 

“Yes, yes,” cried Isabella; “you must become a 
great artist.” 

“And if I don’t succeed, if I accomplish nothing 
more than this. ...” 


ONLY A WORD. 


*77 


Here Ulrich suddenly paused, for he remembered 
that he was going away, perhaps to-morrow, so he con- 
tinued sadly, in a calmer tone : “ Rely upon it ; I will 

do what I can, and whatever happens, you will rejoice, 
will you not, if I succeed — and if it -should be other- 
wise. . . 

“ No, no,” she eagerly exclaimed. “You can ac- 
complish everything, and I — I; you don’t know how 
happy it makes me that you can do more than I ! ” 

Again he held out his hand, and as Isabella warmly 
clasped it, the watchful duenna’s harsh voice cried : 

“ What does this mean, Senorita ? To work, I beg 
of you. Your father says time is precious.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Time is precious ! Magister Kochel had also doubt- 
less said this to himself, as soon as Ulrich left him the 
day before. He had been hired by a secret power, with 
which however he was well acquainted, to watch the 
Netherland artist and collect evidence for a charge — a 
gravamen — against him. 

The spying and informing, which he had zealously 
pursued for years in the service of the Holy Inquisition, 
he called “ serving the Church,” and hoped, sooner or 
later, to be rewarded with a benefice ; but even if this 
escaped him, informing brought him as large an income 
as he required, and had become the greatest pleasure, 
indeed, a necessity of life to him. 

He had commenced his career in Cologne as a 


i7* 


A WORD, 


Dominican friar, and remained in communication with 
some of his old brethren of the Order. 

The monks, Sutor and Stubenrauch, whom Moor 
had hospitably received in his wagon at the last Advent 
season but one,. sometimes answered Kochel’s letters 
of enquiry. 

The latter had long known that the unusual favor 
the king showed the artist was an abomination, not only 
to the heads of the Holy Inquisition, but also to the 
ambassadors and court dignitaries, yet Moor’s quiet, 
stainless life afforded no handle for attack. Soon, how- 
ever, unexpected aid came to him from a distance. 

A letter arrived, dictated by Sutor, and written by 
Stubenrauch in the fluent bad Latin used by him and 
those of his ilk. Among other things it contained an 
account of a journey, in which much was said about 
Moor, whom the noble pair accused of having a hereti- 
cal and evil mind. Instead of taking them to the goal 
of the journey, as he had promised, he had deserted 
them in a miserable tavern by the way-side, among 
rough, godless lansquenets, as the mother of Moses 
abandoned her babe. And such a man as this, they 
had heard with amazement at Cologne, was permitted to 
boast of the favor of His Most Catholic Majesty, King 
Philip. Kochel must take heed, that this leprous soul did 
not infect the whole flock, like a mangy sheep, or even 
turn the shepherd from the true pasture. 

This letter had induced Kochel to lure Ulrich into 
the snare. The monstrous thing learned from the lad 
that day, capped the climax of all he had heard, and 
might serve as a foundation for the charge, that the 
heretical Netherlander — and people were disposed 
to regard all Netherlanders as heretics — had deluded 


ONLY A WORD. 


79 


the king’s mind with magic arts, enslaved his soul 
and bound him with fetters forged by the Prince of 
Evil. 

His pen was swift, and that very evening he went to 
the palace of the Inquisition, with the documents and 
indictment, but was detained there a long time the fol- 
lowing day, to have his verbal deposition recorded. 
When he left the gloomy building, he was animated 
with the joyous conviction that he had not toiled in 
vain, and that the Netherlander was a lost man. 

Preparations for departure were secretly made in 
the painter’s rooms in the Alcazar during the afternoon. 
Moor was full of anxiety, for one of the royal lackeys, 
who was greatly devoted to him, had told him that a 
disguised emissary of the Dominicans — he knew him 
well — had come to the door of the studio, and talked 
there with one of the French servants. This meant as 
imminent peril as fire under the roof, water rising in the 
hold of a ship, or the plague in the house. 

Sophonisba had told him that he would hear from 
her that day, but the sun was already low in the heav- 
ens, and neither she herself nor any message had 
arrived. 

He tried to paint, and finding the attempt useless, 
gazed into the garden and at the distant chain of the 
Guadarrama mountains ; but to-day he remained un- 
moved by the delicate violet-blue mist that floated 
around the bare, naked peaks of the chain. 

It was wrath and impatience, mingled with bitter 
disappointment, that roused the tumult in his soul, not 
merely the dread of torture and death. 

There had been hours when his heart had throbbed 
with gratitude to Philip, and he had believed in his 


i8o 


A WORD, 


friendship. And now? The king cared for nothing 
about him, except his brush. 

He was still standing at the window, lost in gloomy 
thoughts, when Sophonisba was finally announced. 

She did not come alone, but leaning on the arm of 
Don Fabrizio di Moncada. During the last hours of 
the ball the night before she had voluntarily given the 
Sicilian her hand, and rewarded his faithful wooing by 
accepting his suit. 

Moor was rejoiced — yes, really glad at heart, and 
expressed his pleasure ; nevertheless he felt a sharp pang, 
and when the baron, in his simple, aristocratic manner, 
thanked him for the faithful friendship he had always 
shown Sophonisba and her sisters, and then related how 
graciously the queen had joined their hands, he only lis- 
tened with partial attention, for many doubts and sus- 
picions beset him. 

Had Sophonisba’s heart uttered the “ yes,” or had 
she made a heavy sacrifice for him and his safety ? 
Perhaps she would find true happiness by the side of 
this worthy noble, but why had she given herself to him 
now, just now ? Then the thought darted through his 
mind, that the widowed Marquesa- Romero, the all- 
powerful friend of the Grand Inquisitor was Don Fab- 
rizio’s sister. 

Sophonisba had left the conversation to her be- 
trothed husband ; but when the doors of the brightly- 
lighted reception-room were opened, and the candles 
in the studio lighted, the girl could no longer 
endure the restraint she had hitherto imposed upon 
herself, and whispered hurriedly, in broken accents : 

“ Dismiss the servants, lock the studio, and follow 

us.” 


t 


ONLY A WORD. 


181 

Moor did as he was requested, and, with the baron, 
obeyed her request to search the anterooms, to see that 
no unbidden visitor remained. She herself raised the 
curtains and looked up the chimney. 

Moor had rarely seen her so pale. Unable to con- 
trol the muscles of her face, shoulders and hands, she 
went into the middle of the room, beckoned the men 
to come close to her, raised her fan to her face, and 
whispered : 

“Don Fabrizio and I are now one. God hears 
me! You, Master, are in great peril and surrounded by 
spies. Some one witnessed yesterday’s incident, and it is 
now the talk of the town. Don Fabrizio has made 
inquiries. There is an accusation against you, and the 
Inquisition will act upon it. The informers call you a 
heretic, a sorcerer, who has bewitched the king. They 
will seize you to-morrow, or the day after. The king is 
in a terrible mood. The Nuncio openly asked him 
whether it was true, that he had been offered an atro- 
cious insult in your studio. Is everything ready? 
Can you fly ? ” 

Moor bent his head in assent. 

“ Well then,” said the baron, interrupting Sopho- 
nisba; “I beg you to listen to me. I have obtained 
leave of absence, to go to Sicily to ask my father’s 
blessing. It will be no easy matter for me to leave my 
happiness, at the moment my most ardent wish is ful- 
filled — but Sophonisba commands and I obey. I obey 
gladly too, for if I succeed in saving you, a new and 
beautiful star will adorn the heaven of my memory.” 

“ Quick, quick ! ” pleaded Sophonisba, clenching the 
back of a chair firmly with ‘her hand. “ You will yield, 
Master; I beseech you, I command you ! ” 


A WORD, 


182 


Moor bowed, and Don Fabrizio continued : “ We 

will start at four o’clock in the morning. Instead of 
exchanging vows of love, we held a council of war. 
Everything is arranged. In an hour my servants will 
come and ask for the portrait of my betrothed bride ; 
instead of the picture, you will put your baggage in the 
chest. Before midnight you will come to my apart- 
ments. I have passports for myself, six servants, the 
equerry, and a chaplain. Father Clement will remain 
safely concealed at my sister’s, and you will accompany 
me in priestly costume. May we rely upon your con- 
sent?” 

“ With all the gratitude of a thankful heart, but ” 

“ But?” 

“There is my old servant — and my pupil Ulrich 
Navarrete.” 

“The old man is taciturn, Don Fabrizio!” said 
Sophonisba. “ If he is forbidden to speak at all. . . . 
He is necessary to the Master.” 

“Then he can accompany you,” said the baron. 
“ As for your pupil, he must help us secure your flight, 
and lead the pursuers on a false trail. The king has 
honored you with a travelling-carriage. — At half-past 
eleven order horses to be put to it and leave the Al- 
cazar. When you arrive before our palace, stop it, 
alight, and remain with me. Ulrich, whom everybody 
knows — who has not noticed the handsome, fair-haired 
lad in his gay clothes — will stay with the carriage and 
accompany it along the road towards Burgos, as far as 
it goes. A better decoy than he cannot be imagined, 
and besides he is nimble and an excellent horseman. 
Give him your own steed, the .white Andalusian. If 
the blood-hounds should overtake him . . . .” 


ONLY A WORD. 


Here Moor interrupted the baron, saying gravely and 
firmly : “ My grey head will be too dearly purchased at 
the cost of this young life. Change this part of yout 
plan, I entreat you.” 

“ Impossible !” exclaimed the Sicilian. “ We have 
few hours at our command, and if they don’t follow 
him, they will pursue us, and you will be lost.” 

“Yet. . .” Moor began ; but Sophonisba, scarcely able 
to command her voice, interrupted : “ He owes every- 
thing to you. I know him. Where is he ?” 

“ Let us maintain our self-control I” cried the Neth- 
erlander. “ I do not rely upon the king’s mercy, but 
perhaps in the decisive hour, he will remember what we 
have been to each other ; if Ulrich, on the contrary, 
robs the irritated lion of his prey and is seized ” 

“ My sister shall watch over him,” said the baron ; 
but Sophonisba tore open the door, rushed into the 
studio, and called as loudly as she could : “ Ulrich, Ul- 
rich! Ulrich!” 

The men followed her, but scarcely had they crossed 
the threshold, when they heard her rap violently at the 
door of the school-room, and Ulrich asking : “ What is 
it ? Open the door !” 

Soon after, with pallid face and throbbing heart, he 
was standing before the others, asking : “ What am 1 
to do?” 

“Save your master!” cried Sophonisba. “Are you a 
contemptible wight, or does a true artist’s heart beat in 
your breast ? Would you fear to go, perhaps to your 
death, for this imperilled man ?” 

“ No, no!” cried the youth as joyously as if a hun- 
dred-pound weight had been lifted from his breast. “If 
it costs my life, so much the better! Here I am ! Post 


8 4 


A WORD, 


me where you please, do with me as you will ! He has 
given me everything, and I — I have betrayed him. I 
must confess, even if you kill me ! I gossiped, babbled — 
like a fool, a child — about what I accidentally saw 
here yesterday. It is my fault, mine, if they pursue 
him. Forgive me, master, forgive me! Do with me 
what you will. Beat me, slay me, and I will bless 
you!” 

As he .uttered the last words, the young artist, raising 
his clasped hands imploringly, fell on his knees before 
his beloved teacher. Moor bent towards him, saying 
with grave kindness : 

“ Rise, poor lad. I am not angry with you.” 

When Ulrich again stood before him, he kissed his 
forehead and continued : 

“ I have not been mistaken in you. Do you, Don 
Fabrizio, recommend Navarrete to the Marquesa’s 
protection, and tell him what we desire. It 'would 
scarcely redound to his happiness, if the deed, for which 
my imprudence and his thoughtlessness are to blame, 
should be revenged on me. It comforts us to atone for a 
wrong. Whether you save me, Ulrich, or I perish — 
no matter ; you are and always will be, my dear, faith- 
ful friend.” 

Ulrich threw himself sobbing on the artist’s breast, 
and when he learned what was required of him, fairly 
glowed with delight and eagerness for action ; he thought 
no greater joy could befall him than to die for the 
Master. 

As the bell of the palace-chapel was ringing for 
evening service, Sophonisba was obliged to leave her 
friend ; for it was her duty to attend the nocturnus with 
the queen. 


ONLY A WORD. 1 85 

Don Fabrizio turned away, while she bade Moor 
farewelL 

“ If you desire my happiness, make him happy,” 
the artist whispered ; but she could find no words to 
reply, and only nodded silently. 

He drew her gently towards him, kissed her brow, 
and said : “ There is a hard and yet a consoling word : 
Love is divine; but still more divine is sacrifice. 
To-day I am both your friend and father. Remem- 
ber me to your sisters. God bless you, child !” 

“ And you, you !” sobbed the girl. 

Never had any human being prayed so fervently for 
another’s welfare in the magnificent chapel of the Al- 
cazar, as did Sophonisba Anguisciola on this evening. 
Don Fabrizio’s betrothed bride also pleaded for peace 
and calmness in her own heart, for power to forget and 
to do her duty. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Half an hour before midnight Moor entered the 
calash, and Ulrich Navarrete mounted the white An- 
dalusian. 

The artist, deeply agitated, had already taken leave 
of his protege in the studio, had given him a purse of gold 
for his travelling-expenses and any other wants, and 
told him that he would always find with him in Flan- 
ders a home, a father, love, and instruction in his art. 

The painter alighted before Don Fabrizio’s palace; 
a short time after Ulrich noisily drew the leather cur- 
tain before the partition of the calash, and then called 


i86 


A WORD, 


to the coachman, who had often driven Moor when he 
was unexpectedly summoned to one of the king’s pleas- 
ure-palaces at night : “ Go ahead !” 

They were stopped at the gate, but the guards knew 
the favorite’s calash and fair-haired pupil, and granted 
the latter the escort he asked for his master. So they 
went forward ; at first rapidly, then at a pace easy for 
the horses. He told the coachman that Moor had 
alighted at the second station, and would ride with 
His Majesty to Avila, where he wished to find the 
carriage. 

During the whole way, Ulrich thought little of 
himself, and all the more of the master. If the pursuers 
had set out the morning after the departure, and fol- 
lowed him instead of Don Fabrizio’s party, Moor 
might now be safe. He knew the names of the towns 
on the road to Valencia and thought: “Now he may 
be here, now he may be there, now he must be ap- 
proaching Tarancon.” 

In the evening the calash reached the famous strong- 
hold of Avila where, according to the agreement, Ul- 
rich was to leave the carriage and try to make his own 
escape. The road led through the town, which was 
surrounded by high walls and deep ditches. There 
was no possibility of going round it, yet the drawbridges 
were already raised and the gates locked, so he boldly 
called the warder and showed his passport. 

An officer asked to see the artist. Ulrich said that 
he would follow him ; but the soldier was not satisfied, 
and ordered him to alight and accompany him to the 
commandant. 

Ulrich struck his spurs into the Andalusian’s flanks and 
tried to go back over the road by which he had come ; 


ONLY A WORD. 


87 


but the horse had scarcely begun to gallop, when a shot 
was fired, that stretched it on the ground. The rider 
was dragged into the guard-house as a prisoner, and 
subjected to a severe examination. 

He was suspected of having murdered Moor and of 
having stolen his money, for a purse filled with ducats 
was found on his person. While he was being fettered, 
the pursuers reached Avila. 

A new examination began, and now trial followed 
trial, torture, torture. 

Even at Avila a sack was thrown over his head, and 
only opened, when to keep him alive, he was fed with 
bread and water. Firmly bound in a two-wheeled 
cart, drawn by mules, he was dragged over stock and 
stones to Madrid. 

Often, in the darkness, oppressed for breath, jolted, 
bruised, unable to control his thoughts, or even 
his voice, he expected to perish; yet no fainting- 
fit, no moment of utter unconsciousness pityingly came 
to his relief, far less did any human heart have com- 
passion on his suffering. 

At last, at last he was unbound, and led, still with 
his head covered, into a small, dark room. 

Here he was released from the sack, but again 
loaded with chains. 

When he was left alone and had regained the capa- 
city to think, he felt convinced that he was in one of 
the dungeons of the Inquisition. Here were the damp 
walls, the wooden bench, the window in the ceiling, of 
which he had heard. He was soon to learn that he had 
judged correctly. 

His body was granted a week’s rest, but during this 
horrible week he did not cease to upbraid himself as a 
13 


i88 


A WORD, 


traitor, and execrate the fate which had used him a 
second time to hurl a friend and benefactor into ruin. 
He cursed himself, and when he thought of the “ word ” 
“ fortune, fortune ! ” he gnashed his teeth scornfully 
and clenched his fist. 

His young soul was darkened, embittered, thrown 
off its balance. He saw no deliverance, no hope, no 
consolation. He tried to pray, to God, to Jesus Christ, 
to the Virgin, to the Saints; but they all stood before 
him, in a vision, with lifeless features and paralyzed arms. 
For him, who had relied on “ Fortune,” and behaved 
like a fool, they felt no pity, no compassion, they would 
not lend their aid. 

But soon his former energy returned and with it the 
power to lift his soul in prayer. He regained them during 
the torture, on the rack. 

Weeks, months elapsed. Ulrich still remained in the 
gloomy cell, loaded with chains, scantily fed on bread 
and water, constantly looking death in the face ; but a 
fresh, beautiful spirit of defiance and firm determination 
to live animated the youth, who was now at peace with 
himself. On the rack he had regained the right to re- 
spect himself, and striven to win the master’s praise, the 
approval of the living and his beloved dead. 

The wounds on his poor, crushed, mangled hands 
and feet still burned. The physician had seen them, 
and when they healed, shook his head in amazement. 

Ulrich rejoiced in his scars, for on the rack and in 
the Spanish boot, on nails, and the pointed bench, in the 
iron necklace and with the stifling helmet on his head, 
he had resolutely refused to betray through whom and 
whither the master had escaped. 

They might come back, burn and spear him ; but 


ONLY A WORD. 


89 


through him they should surely learn nothing, nothing 
at all. He was scarcely aware that he had a right to 
forgiveness ; yet he felt he had atoned. 

Now he could think of the past again. The Holy 
Virgin once more wore his lost mother’s features ; his 
father, Ruth, Pellicanus, Moor looked kindly at him. 
But the brightest light shone into his soul through 
the darkness of the dungeon, when he thought of art and 
his last work. It stood before him distinctly in brilliant 
hues, feature for feature, as on the canvas ; he esteemed 
himself happy in having painted it, and would willingly 
have gone to the rack once, twice, thrice, if he could 
merely have obtained the certainty of creating other 
pictures like this, and perhaps still nobler, more beauti- 
ful ones. 

Art ! Art ! Perhaps this was the “ word,” and if 
not, it was the highest, most exquisite, most precious 
thing in life, beside which everything else seemed small, 
pitiful and insipid. With what other word could God 
have created the world, human beings, animals, and 
plants ? The doctor had often called every flower, 
every beetle, a work of art, and Ulrich now understood 
his meaning, and could imagine how the Almighty, with 
the thirst for creation and plastic hand of the greatest of 
all artists, had formed the gigantic bodies of the stars, 
had given the sky its glittering blue, had indented and 
rounded the mountains, had bestowed form and color on 
everything that runs, creeps, flies, buds and blossoms, 
and had fashioned man — created in His own image — 
in the most majestic form of all. 

How wonderful the works of God appeared to him 
in the solitude of the dark dungeon — and if the world 
was beautiful, was it not the work of His Divine Art ! 

13 


A WORD, 


I90 


Heaven and earth knew no word greater, more 
powerful, more mighty in creating beauty than : Art. 
What, compared with its gifts, were the miserable, de- 
lusive ones of Fortune : gay clothes, spiced dishes, 
magnificent rooms, and friendly glances from beautiful 
eyes, that smile on every one who pleases them ! He 
would blow them all into the air, for the assistance of 
Art in joyous creating. Rather, a thousand times rather, 
would he beg his bread, and attain great things in Art, 
than riot and revel in good-fortune. 

Colors, colors, canvas, a model like Sophonisba, 
and success in the realm of Art ! It was for these things 
he longed, these things made him yearn with such pas- 
sionate eagerness for deliverance, liberty. 

Months glided by, maturing Ulrich’s mind as rapidly 
as if they had been years ; but his inclination to retire 
within himself deepened into intense reserve. 

At last the day arrived on which, through the influ- 
ence of the Marquesa Romero, the doors of his dungeon 
opened. 

It was soon after receiving a sharp warning to re- 
nounce his obstinacy at the next examination, that the 
youth was suddenly informed that he was free. The 
jailer took off his fetters, and helped him exchange his 
prison garb for the dress he had worn when captured ; 
then disguised men threw a sack over his head and led 
him up and down stairs and across pavements, through 
dust and grass, into the little court-yard of a deserted 
house in the suburbs. There they left him, and he soon 
released his head from its covering. 

How delicious God’s free air seemed, as his chest 
heaved with grateful joy ! He threw out his arms like 
a bird stretching its wings to fly, then he clasped his 


ONLY A WORD. 


l 9 


hands over his brow, and at last, as if a second time 
pursued, rushed out of the court-yard into the street. 

The passers-by looked after him, shaking theirheads, 
and he certainly presented a singular spectacle, for the 
dress in which he had fled many months before, had sus- 
tained severe injuries on the journey from Avila; his hat 
was lost on the way, and had not been replaced by a 
new one. The cuffs and collar, which belonged to his 
doublet, were missing, and his thick, fair hair hung in dis- 
hevelled locks over his neck and temples ; his full, rosy 
cheeks had grown thin, his eyes seemed to have en- 
larged, and during his imprisonment a soft down had 
grown on his cheeks and chin. 

He was now eighteen, but looked older, and the 
grave expression on his brow and in his eyes, gave him 
the appearance of a man. 

He had rushed straight forward, without asking him- 
self whither ; now he reached a busy street and checked 
his career. Was he in Madrid ? Yes, for there rose 
the blue peaks of the Guadarrama chain, which he 
knew well. There were the little trees at which the 
denizen of the Black Forest had often smiled, but which 
to-day looked large and stately. Now a toreador, 
whom he had seen more than once in the arena, strut- 
ted past. This was the gate, through which he had 
ridden out of the city beside the master’s calash. 

He must go into the town, but what should he do 
there ? 

Had they restored the master’s gold with the 
clothes ? 

He searched the pockets, but instead of the purse, 
found only a few large silver coins, which he knew he 
had not possessed at the time of his capture. 


192 


A WORD, 


In a cook-shop behind the gate he enjoyed some 
meat and wine after his long deprivation, and after re- 
flecting upon his situation he decided to call on Don 
Fabrizio. 

The porter refused him admittance, but after he had 
mentioned his name, kindly invited him into the porch, 
and told him that the baron and his wife were in the 
country with the Marquesa Romero. They were ex- 
pected back on Tuesday, and would doubtless receive 
him then, for they had already asked about him several 
times. The young gentleman probably came from some 
foreign country; it was the custom to wear hats in 
Madrid. 

Ulrich now noticed what he lacked, but before 
leaving, to supply the want, asked the porter, if he knew 
what had become of Master Moor. 

Safe! He was safe! Several weeks before Donna 
Sophonisba had received a letter sent from Flanders, 
and Ulrich’s companion was well informed, for his wife 
served the baroness as doncella. 

Joyously, almost beside himself with pure, heart- 
cheering delight, the released prisoner hurried away, 
bought himself a new cap, and then sought the Alca- 
zar. 

Before the treasury, in the place of old Santo, Car- 
men’s father, stood a tall, broad portero , still a young 
man, who rudely refused him admittance. 

“ Master Moor has not been here for a long time,” 
said the gate-keeper angrily : “ Artists don’t wear 

ragged clothes, and if you don’t wish to see the inside 
of a guard-house — a place you are doubtless familiar 
with — you had better leave at once.” 

Ulrich answered the gate-keeper’s insulting taunts 


ONLY A WORD. 


193 


indignantly and proudly, for he was no longer the yield- 
ing boy of former days, and the quarrel soon became 
serious. 

J ust then a dainty little woman, neatly dressed for 
the evening promenade, with the mantilla on her curls, 
a pomegranate blossom in her hair, and another on her 
bosom, came out of the Alcazar. Waving her fan, and 
tripping over the pavement like a wag-tail, she came 
directly towards the disputants. 

Ulrich recognized her instantly; it was Carmen, the 
pretty embroiderer of the shell-grotto in the park, now 
the wife of the new porter, who had obtained his dead 
predecessor’s office, as well as his daughter. 

“Carmen! ” exclaimed Ulrich, as soon as he saw the 
pretty little woman, then added confidently. “This 
young lady knows me.” 

“ I ? ” asked the young wife, turning up her pretty 
little nose, and looking at the tall youth’s shabby cos- 
tume. “ Who are you ? ” 

“Master Moor’s pupil, Ulrich Navarrete; don’t you 
remember me ? ” 

“ I, I ? You must be mistaken ! ” 

With these words she shut her fan so abruptly, that 
it snapped loudly, and tripped on. 

Ulrich shrugged his shoulders, then turned to the 
porter more courteously, and this time succeeded in his 
purpose ; for the artist Coello’s body-servant came out 
of the treasury, and willingly announced him to his 
master, who now, as court-artist, occupied Moor’s 
quarters. 

Ulrich followed the friendly Pablo into the palace, 
where every step he mounted reminded him of his old 
master and former days. 


194 


A WORD, 


When he at last stood in the anteroom, and the 
odor of the fresh oil-colors, which were being ground in 
an adjoining room, reached his nostrils, he inhaled it no 
less eagerly than, an hour before, he had breathed the 
fresh air, of which he had been so long deprived. 

What reception could he expect ? The court-artist 
might easily shrink from coming in contact with the 
pupil of Moor, who had now lost the sovereign’s favor. 
Coello was a very different man from the Master, a child 
of the moment, varying every day. Sometimes haughty 
and repellent, on other occasions a gay, merry com- 
panion, who had jested with his own children and 
Ulrich also, as if all were on the same footing. If to- 
day But Ulrich did not have much time for 

such reflections ; a few minutes after Pablo left, the door 
was torn open, and the whole Coello family rushed joy- 
ously to meet him; Isabella first. Sanchez followed 
close behind her, then came the artist, next his stout, 
clumsy wife, whom Ulrich had rarely seen, because she 
usually spent the whole day lying on a couch with her 
lap-dog. Last of all appeared the duenna Catalina, a 
would-be sweet smile hovering around her lips. 

The reception given him by the others was all the 
more joyous and cordial. 

Isabella laid her hands on his arm, as if she wanted 
to feel that it was really he ; and yet, when she looked 
at him more closely, she shook her head as if there was 
something strange in his appearance. Sanchez em- 
braced him, whirling him round and round, Coello 
shook hands, murmuring many kind words, and the 
mother turned to the duenna, exclaiming : 

“ Holy Virgin ! what has happened to the pretty 
boy ? How famished he looks ! Go to the kitchen in- 


ONLY A WORD. 


*95 


stantly, Catalina, and tell Diego to bring him food 
— food and drink.” 

At last they all pulled and pushed him into the sit- 
ting-room, where the mother immediately threw herself 
on the couch again; then the others questioned him, 
making him tell them how he had fared, whence he 
came, and many other particulars. 

He was no longer hungry, but Senora Petra insisted 
upon his seating himself near her couch and eating a 
capon, while he told his story. 

Every face expressed sympathy, approval, pity, and 
at last Coello said: 

“ Remain here, Navarrete. The king longs for 
Moor, and you will be as safe with us, as if you were 
in Abraham’s lap. We have plenty for you to do. You 
come to me as opportunely, as if you had dropped 
from the skies. I was just going to write to Venice 
for an assistant. Holy Jacob ! You can’t stay so, but 
thanks to the Madonna and Moor, you are not poor. 
We have ample means, my young sir. Donna Sophon- 
isba gave me a hundred zechins for you ; they are lying in 
yonder chest, and thank Heaven, haven’t grown impa- 
tient by waiting. They are at your disposal. Your mas- 
ter, my master, the noble master of all portrait-painters, 
our beloved Moor arranged it. You won’t go about the 
streets in this way any longer. Look, Isabella; this sleeve 
is hanging by two strings, and the elbow is peering out 
of the window. Such a dress is airy enough, certainly. 
Take him to the tailor’s at once, Sanchez, Oliverio, 

or but no, no; we’ll all stay together to-day. 

Herrera is coming from the Escurial. You will endure 
the dress for the sake of the wearer, won’t you, ladies ? 
Besides, who is to choose the velvet and cut for this 


tg6 


A WORD, 


young dandy? He always wore something unusual. I 
can still see the master’s smile, provoked by some of the 
lad’s new contrivances in puffs and slashes. It is pleasant 
to have you here, my boy ! I ought to slay a calf, as 
the father did for the prodigal son; but we live in 
miniature. Instead of neat-cattle, only a capon ! . . . . 
But you’re not drinking, you’re not drinking ! Isabella, 
fill his glass. Look ! only see these scars on his hands and 
neck. It will need a great deal of lace to conceal them. 
No, no, they are marks of honor, you must show them. 
Come here, I will kiss this great scar, on your neck, my 
brave, faithful fellow, and some day a fair one will fol- 
low my example. If Antonio were only here ! There’s 
a kiss for him, and another, there, there. Art bestows 
it, Art, for whom you have saved Moor !” 

A master’s kiss in the name of Art ! It was sweeter 
than the beautiful Carmen’s lips ! 

Coello was himself an artist, a great painter ! Where 
could his peers be found — or those of Moor, and the 
architect Herrera, who entered soon after. Only those, 
who consecrated their lives to Art, the word of words, 
could be so noble, cheerful, kind. 

How happy he was when he went to bed ! how 
gratefully he told his beloved dead, in spirit, what had 
fallen to his lot, and how joyously he could pray ! 

The next morning he went with a full purse into 
the city, returning elegantly dressed, and with neatly- 
arranged locks. The peinador had given his budding 
moustache a bold twist upward. 

He still looked thin and somewhat awkward, but 
the tall youth promised to become a stately man. 


ONLY A WORD. 


197 


CHAPTER XX. 

Towards noon Coello called Ulrich into Moor’s 
former studio ; the youth could not fail to observe its 
altered appearance. 

Long cartoons, containing sketches of figures, large 
paintings, just commenced or half-finished, leaned 
against the easels ; mannikins, movable wooden horse’s 
heads, and plaster-models stood on the floor, the tables, 
and in the windows. Stuffs, garments, tapestries, weap- 
ons hung over the backs of the chairs, or lay on chests, 
tables and the stone-floor. Withered laurel-wreaths, 
tied with long ribbons, fluttered over the mantel-piece ; 
one had fallen, dropped over the bald head of Julius 
Caesar, and rested on the breast. 

The artist’s six cats glided about among the easels, 
or stretched their limbs on costly velvet and Arabian 
carpets. 

In one corner stood a small bed with silk curtains — 
the nursery of the master’s pets. A magnificent white 
cat was suckling her kittens in it. 

Two blue and yellow cockatoos and several parrots 
swung screaming in brass hoops before the open win- 
dow, and Coello’s coal-black negro crept about, cleaning 
the floor of the spacious apartment, though it was 
already noon. While engaged in this occupation, he 
constantly shook his woolly head, displaying his teeth, 
for his master was singing loudly at his work, and the 
gaily-clad African loved music. 


198 


A WORD, 


What a transformation had taken place in the 
Netherlander’s quiet, orderly, scrupulously neat studio! 

But, even amid this confusion, admirable works were 
created; nay, the Spaniard possessed a much more 
vivid imagination, and 'painted pictures, containing a 
larger number of figures and far more spirited than 
Moor’s, though they certainly were not pervaded by the 
depth and earnestness, the marvellous fidelity to nature, 
that characterized those of Ulrich’s beloved master. 

Coello called the youth to the easel, and pointing to 
the sketches in color, containing numerous figures, on 
which he was painting, said : 

“ Look here, my son. This is to be a battle of the 
Centaurs, these are Parthian horsemen; — Saint George 
and the Dragon, and the Crusaders are not yet finished. 
The king wants the Apocalyptic riders too. Deuce 
take it ! But it must be done. I shall commence them 
to-morrow. They are intended for the walls and ceil- 
ing of the new winter riding-school. One person gets 

along slowly with all this stuff, and I — I The 

orders oppress me. If a man could only double, quad- 
ruple himself! Diana of Ephesus had many breasts, 
and Cerberus three heads, but only two hands have 
grown on my wrists. I need help, and you are just 
the person to give it. You have had nothing to do 
with horses yet, Isabella tells me ; but you are half a 
Centaur yourself. Set to work on the steeds now, and 
when you have progressed far enough, you shall transfer 
these sketches to the ceiling and walls of the riding- 
school. I will help you perfect the thing, and give it 
the finishing touch. 

This invitation aroused more perplexity than pleas- 
ure in Ulrich’s mind, for it was not in accordance with 


ONLY A NVOfcD. 


1 09 

Moor’s opinions. Fear of his fellow-men no longer 
restrained him, so he frankly said that he would rather 
sketch industriously from nature, and perhaps would do 
well to seek Moor in Flanders. Besides, he was afraid 
that Coello greatly overrated his powers. 

But the Spaniard eagerly cut him short: 

“ I have seen your portrait of Sophonisba. You 
are no longer a pupil, but a rising artist. Moor is a 
peerless portrait- painter, and you have profited greatly 
by his teaching. But Art has still higher aims. 
Every living thing belongs to her. The Venus, the 
horse . . . which of those two pictures won Apelles the 
greater fame ? Not only copying, but creating original 
ideas, leads to the pinnacle of art. Moor praised your 
vivid imagination. We must use what we possess. Re- 
member Buonarotti, Raphael ! Their compositions and 
frescos, have raised their names above all others. 
Antonio has tormented you sufficiently with drawing 
lifeless things. When you transfer these sketches, many 
times enlarged, to a broad surface, you will learn more 
than in years of copying plaster-casts. A man 
must have talent, courage and industry ; everything 
else comes of its own accord, and thank Heaven, you’re 
a lucky fellow! Look at my horses — -they are not so 
bad, yet I never sketched a living one in my life till I 
was commissioned to paint His Majesty on horseback. 
You shall have a better chance. Go to the stables and 
the old riding-school to-morrow. First try noble ani- 
mals, then visit the market and shambles, and see how 
the knackers look. If you make good speed, you shall 
soon see the first ducats you yourself have earned.” 

The golden reward possessed little temptation for 
Ulrich, but he allowed himself to be persuaded by 


200 


A WORD, 


his senior, and drew and painted horses and mares 
with pleasure and success, working with Isabella and 
Coello’s pupil, Felice de Liano, when they sketched 
and painted from living models. When the scaffolding 
was erected in the winter riding-school, he went there 
under the court-artist’s direction, to measure, arrange 
and finally transfer the painter’s sketches to the wide 
surfaces. 

He did this with increasing satisfaction, for though 
Coello’s sketches possessed a certain hardness, they 
were boldly devised and pleased him. 

The farther he progressed, the more passionately in- 
terested he became in his work. To create on a grand 
scale delighted him, and the fully occupied life, as well 
as the slight fatigue after his work was done, which was 
sweetened by the joy of labor accomplished, were all 
beautiful, enjoyable things ; yet Ulrich felt that this was 
not exactly the right course, that a steeper, more toil- 
some path must lead to the height he desired to 
attain. 

He lacked the sharp spurring to do better and 
better, the censure of a master, who was greatly his 
superior. Praise for things, which did not satisfy him- 
self, vexed him and roused his distrust. 

Isabella, and — after his return — Sophonisba, were 
his confidantes. 

The former had long felt what he now expressed. 
Her young heart clung to him, but she loved in him the 
future great artist as much as the man. It was cer- 
tainly no light matter for her to be deprived of Ulrich’s 
society, yet she unselfishly admitted that her father, in 
the vast works he had undertaken, could not be a 
teacher like Moor, and it would probably be best for 


ONLY A WORD. 201 

him to seek his old master in Flanders, as soon as his 
task in the riding-school was completed. 

She said this, because she believed it to be her duty, 
though sadly and anxiously; but he joyously agreed 
with her, for Sophonisba had handed him a letter from 
the master, in which the latter cordially invited him to 
come to Antwerp. 

Don Fabrizio’s wife summoned him to her palace, and 
Ulrich found her as kind and sympathizing as when she 
had been a girl, but her gay, playful manner had given 
place to a more quiet dignity. 

She wished to be told in detail all he had suffered 
for Moor, how he employed himself, what he intended 
to do in the future ; and she even sought him more than 
once in the riding-school, watched him at his work, and 
examined his drawings and sketches. 

Once she induced him to tell her the story of his 
youth. 

This was a boon to Ulrich; for, although we keep our 
best treasures most closely concealed, yet our happiest 
hours are those in which, with the certainty of being 
understood, we are permitted to display them. 

The youth could show this noble woman, this favor- 
ite of the Master, this artist, what he would not have 
confided to any man, so he permitted her to behold his 
childhood, and gaze deep into his soul. 

He did not even hide what he knew about the 
“ word ” — that he believed he had found the right one 
in the dungeon, and that Art would remain his guiding 
star, as long as he lived. 

Sophonisba’s cheeks flushed deeper and deeper, and 
never had he seen her so passionately excited, so 
earnest and enthusiastic, as now when she exclaimed; 


A WORD, 


202 


“ Yes, Ulrich, yes ! You have found the right word ! 
It is Art, and no other. Whoever knows it, whoever 
serves it, whoever impresses it deeply on his soul, and 
only breathes and moves in it, no longer has any taint 
of baseness ; he soars high above the earth, and knows 
nothing of misery and death. It is with Art the Divinity 
bridges space and descends to man, to draw him up- 
ward to brighter worlds. This word transfigures every- 
thing, and brings fresh green shoots even from the dry 
wood of souls defrauded of love and hope. Life is a 
thorny rose-bush, and Art its flower. Here Mirth is 
melancholy — Joy is sorrowful and Liberty is dead. 
Here Art withers and — like an exotic — is prevented 
perishing outright only by artificial culture. But 
there is a land, I know it well, for it is my home — 
where Art buds and blossoms and throws its shade over 
all the highways. Favorite of Antonio, knight of the 
Word — you must go to Italy ! ” 

Sophonisba had spoken. He must go to Italy. The 
home of Titian ! Raphael ! Buonarotti ! where also the 
Master went to school. 

“Oh, Word, Word!” he cried exultingly in his 
heart. “ What other can disclose, even on earth, such 
a glimpse of the joys of Paradise.” 

When he left Sophonisba, he felt as if he were 
intoxicated. 

What still detained him in Madrid ? 

Moor’s zechins were not yet exhausted, and he was 
sure of the assistance of the “ word” upon the sacred 
soil of Italy. 

He unfolded his plan to Coello without delay, at 
first modestly, then firmly and defiantly. But the 
court-artist would not let him go. He knew how to 


ONLY A WORD. 


203 

maintain his composure, and even admitted that 
Ulrich must travel, but said it was still too soon. He 
must first finish the work he had undertaken in the 
riding-school, then he himself would smooth the way to 
Italy for him. To leave him, so heavily burdened, in 
the lurch now, would be treating him ungratefully and 
basely. 

Ulrich was forced to acknowledge this, and con- 
tinued to paint on the scaffold, but his pleasure in cre- 
ating was spoiled. He thought of nothing but Italy. 
Every hour in Madrid seemed lost. His lofty purposes 
were unsettled, and he began to seek diversion for his 
mind, especially at the fencing-school with Sanchez 
Coello. 

His eye was keen, his wrist pliant, and his arm was 
gaining more and more of his father’s strength, so he 
soon performed extraordinary feats. 

His remarkable skill, his reserved nature, and the 
natural charm of his manner soon awakened esteem and 
regard among the young Spaniards, with whom he 
associated. 

He was invited to the banquets given by the 
wealthier ones, and to join the wild pranks, in which they 
sometimes indulged, but spite of persuasions and entreat- 
ies, always in vain. 

Ulrich needed no comrades, and his-zechins were 
sacred to him ; he was keeping them for Italy. 

The others soon thought him an odd, arrogant 
fellow, with whom no friendly ties could be formed, and 
left him to his own resources. He wandered about 
the streets at night alone, serenaded fair ladies, and 
compelled many gentlemen, who offended him, to meet 
him in single combat. 


r 4 


204 


A \V0Rf), 

No one, not even Sanchez Coello, was permitted to 
know of these nocturnal adventures; they were his 
chief pleasure, stirred his blood, and gave him the bliss- 
ful consciousness of superior strength. 

This mode of life increased his self-confidence, and 
expressed itself in his bearing, which gained a touch of 
the Spanish air. He was now fully grown, and when 
he entered his twentieth year, was taller than most Cas- 
tilians, and carried his head as high as a grandee. 

Yet he was dissatisfied with himself, for he made 
slow progress in his art, and cherished the firm convic- 
tion that there was nothing more for him to learn in 
Madrid ; Coello’s commissions were robbing him of the 
most precious time. 

The work in the riding-school was at last approach- 
ing completion. It had occupied far more than the 
year in which it was to have been finished, and His 
Majesty’s impatience had become so great, that Coello 
was compelled to leave everything else, to paint only 
there, and put his improving touches to Ulrich’s labor. 

The time for departure was drawing near. The 
hanging-scaffold, on which he had lain for months, 
working on the master’s pictures, had been removed, 
but there was still something to be done to the walls. 

Suddenly the court-artist was ordered to suspend 
the work, and have the beams, ladders and boards, 
which narrowed the space in the picadero * , removed. 

The large enclosure was wanted during the next few 
days for a special purpose, and there were new things 
for Coello to do. 

Don Juan of Austria, the king’s chivalrous half- 
brother, had commenced his heroic career, and van- 
* Riding-school. 


ONLY A WORD. 


205 


quished the rebellious Moors in Granada. A magnifi- 
cent reception was to be prepared for the young con- 
queror, and Coello received the commission to adorn 
a triumphal arch with hastily-sketched, effective pic- 
tures. 

The designs were speedily completed, and the tri- 
umphal arch erected in a court-yard of the Alcazar, for 
here, within the narrow circle of the court, not publicly, 
before the whole population, had the suspicious mon- 
arch resolved to receive and honor the victor. 

Ulrich had again assisted Coello in the execution of 
his sketches. Everything was finished at the right 
time, and Don Juan’s reception brilliantly carried 
out with great pomp and dignity, through the whole 
programme of a Te Deum and three services, pro- 
cessions, bull-fights, a grand Auto-da-fe, and a tourna- 
ment. 

After this festival, the king again resigned the riding- 
school to the artists, who instantly set to work. Every- 
thing was finished except the small figures at the bottom 
of the larger pictures, and these could be executed 
without scaffolding. 

Ulrich was again standing on the ladder, for the 
first time after this interruption, and Coello had just 
followed him into the picadero , when a great bustle was 
heard outside. 

The broad doors flew open, and the manege was 
soon filled with knights and ladies on foot and horse- 
back. 

The most brilliant figures in all the stately throng 
were Don Juan himself, and his youthful nephew, Alex- 
ander Farnese, Prince of Parma. 

Ulrich feasted his eyes on the splendid train, and 
14 


20 6 


A WORD, 


the majestic, haughty, yet vivacious manner of the 
conqueror. 

Never in his life, he thought, had he seen a more 
superb youthful figure. Don Juan stopped directly op- 
posite to him, and bared his head. The thick, fair hair 
brushed back behind his ears, hung in wonderfully soft, 
waving locks down to his neck, and his features blended 
feminine grace with manly vigor. 

As, hat in hand, he swung himself from the saddle, 
unassisted, to greet the fair duchess of Medina Celi, 
there was such a charm in his movements, that the 
young artist felt inclined to believe all the tales related 
of the successful love affairs of this favorite of fortune, 
who was the son of the Emperor Charles, by a Ger- 
man washerwoman. 

Don Juan graciously requested his companion to 
retire to the back of the vianege , assisted the ladies 
from their saddles and, offering his hand to the duchess, 
led her to the dais, then returning to the ring, he issued 
some orders to the mounted officers in his train, and 
stood conversing with the ladies, Alexander Farnese, and 
the grandees near him. 

Loud shouts and the tramp of horses hoofs were 
now heard outside of the picadero , and directly after 
nine bare-backed horses were led into the ring, all se- 
lected animals of the best blood of the Andalusian 
breed, the pearls of all the horses Don Juan had cap- 
tured. 

Exclamations and cries of delight echoed through 
the building, growing louder and warmer, when the 
tenth and last prize, a coal-black young stallion, 
dragged the sinewy Moors that led him, into the ring, 
and rearing lifted them into the air with him. 


ONLY A WORD. 


207 


The brown-skinned young fellows resisted bravely ; 
but Don Juan turning to Alexander Farnese, said: 

“What a superb animal! but alas, alas, he has a 
devilish temper, so we have called him Satan. He will 
bear neither saddle nor rider. How dare I venture. . . 
there he rears again. ... It is quite impossible to offer 
him to His Majesty. Just look at those eyes, those 
crimson nostrils. A perfect monster ! ” 

“ But there cannot be a more beautiful creature ! ” 
cried the prince, warmly. “ That shining black coat, 
the small head, the neck, the croup, the carriage of his 
tail, the fetlocks and hoofs. Oh, oh, that was serious ! ” 
The vicious stallion had reared for the third time, 
pawing wildly with his fore-legs, and in so doing struck 
one of the Moors. Shrieking and wailing, the latter 
fell on the ground, and directly after the animal released 
itself from the second groom, and now dashed freely, 
with mighty leaps, around the course, rushing hither and 
thither as if mad, kicking furiously, and hurling sand and 
dust into the faces of the ladies on the dais. The latter 
shrieked loudly, and their screams increased the animal’s 
furious excitement. Several gentlemen drew back, and 
the master of the horse loudly ordered the other bare- 
backed steeds to be led away. 

Don Juan and Alexander Farnese stood still; but 
the former drew his sword, exclaiming, vehemently: 

“ Santiago ! I’ll kill the brute ! ” 

He was not satisfied with words, but instantl) 
rushed upon the stallion ; the latter avoiding him, bound- 
ed how backward, now sideways, at every fresh leap 
throwing sand upon the dais. 

Ulrich could remain on the ladder no longer. 

Fully aware of his power over refractory horses, he 


2o8 


A WORD, 


boldly entered the ring and walked quietly towards the 
snorting, foaming steed. Driving the animal back, and 
following him, he watched his opportunity, and as Satan 
turned, reached his side and boldly seized his nostrils 
firmly with his hand. 

Satan plunged more and more furiously, but the 
smith’s son held him as firmly as if in a vise, breathed 
into his nostrils, and stroked his head and muzzle, whis- 
pering soothing words. 

The animal gradually became quieter, tried once 
more to release himself from his tamer’s iron hand, and 
when he again failed, began to tremble and meekly 
stood still with his fore legs stretched far apart. 

“ Bravo ! Bravamente !” cried the duchess, and 
praise from such lips intoxicated Ulrich. The impulse 
to make a display, inherited from his mother, urged 
him to take still greater risks. Carefully winding his 
left hand in the stallion’s mane, he released his nostrils 
and swung himself on his back. Taken by surprise Satan 
tried to rid himself of his burden, but the rider sat firm, 
leaned far over the steed’s neck, stroked his head again, 
pressed his flanks and, after the lapse of a few minutes, 
guided him merely by the pressure of his thighs first at 
a walk, then at a trot over the track. At last springing 
off, he patted Satan, who pranced peacefully beside him, 
and led him by the bridle to Don Juan. 

The latter measured the tall, brave fellow with a 
hasty glance, and turning, half to him, half to Alexan- 
der Famese, said : 

“ An enviable trick, and admirable performance; by 
my love !” 

Then he approached the stallion, stroked and patted 
his shining neck, and continued : 


ONLY A WORD. 


209 


“ I thank you, young man. You have saved my 
best horse. But for you I should have stabbed him. 
You are an artist?” 

“ At your service, Your Highness.” 

“Your art is beautiful, and you alone knowhow 
it suits you. But much honor, perhaps also wealth 
and fame, can be gained among my troopers. Will 
you enlist? ” 

“ No, Your Highness,” replied Ulrich, with a low 
bow. “ If I were not an artist, I should like best to be 
a soldier; but I cannot give up my art.” 

“ Right, right ! Yet .... do you think your cure 
of Satan will be lasting ; or will the dance begin again 
to-morrow ? ” 

“ Perhaps so; but grant me a week, Your Highness, 
and the swarthy fellows can easily manage him. An 
hour’s training like this every morning, and the work 
will be accomplished. Satan will scarcely be trans- 
formed into an angel, but probably will become a per- 
fectly steady horse.” 

“ If you succeed,” replied Don Juan, joyously, “ you 
will greatly oblige me. Come to me next week. If 
you bring good tidings .... consider meantime, how I 
can serve you.” 

Ulrich did not need to consider long. A week 
would pass swiftly, and then — then the king’s brother 
should send him to Italy. Even his enemies knew that 
he was liberal and magnanimous. 

The week passed away, the horse was tamed and 
bore the saddle quietly. Don Juan received Ulrich’s 
petition kindly, and invited him to make the journey on 
the admiral’s galley, with the king’s ambassador and his 
secretary, de Soto. 


210 


A WORD, 


The very same day the happy artist obtained a bill 
of exchange on a house on the Rialto, and now it was 
settled, he was going to Italy. 

Coello was obliged to submit, and his kind heart 
again showed itself ; for he wrote letters of introduction 
for Ulrich to his old artist friends in Venice, and in- 
duced the king to send the great Titian a present — which 
the ambassador was to deliver. The court-artist ob- 
tained from the latter a promise to present his pupil 
Navarrete to the grey-haired prince of artists. 

Everything was now ready for departure ; Ulrich 
again packed his belongings in the studio, but with very 
different feelings from the first time. 

He was a man, he now knew what the right “ word ” 
was, life lay open before him, and the paradise of Art 
was about to unclose its gates. 

The studies he had finished in Madrid aroused his 
compassion ; in Italy he would first really begin to be- 
come an artist : there work must bring him what it had 
here denied : satisfaction, success ! Gay as a boy, half 
frantic with joy, happiness and expectation, he crushed 
the sketches, which seemed to him too miserable, into the 
waste-paper basket with a maul-stick. 

During this work of destruction, Isabella entered 
the room. 

She was now sixteen. Her figure had developed 
early, but remained petite. Large, deep, earnest eyes 
looked forth from the little round face, and the fresh, 
tiny mouth could not help pleasing everyone. Her head 
now reached only to Ulrich’s breast, and if he had 
always treated her like a dear, sensible, clever child, her 
small stature had certainly been somewhat to blame for it. 

To-day she was paler than usual and her features 


ONLY A WORD. 


2 


were so grave, that the young man asked her in surprise, 
yet full of sympathy : 

“ What is the matter, little one ? Are you not 
well ? ” 

“Yes, yes,” she answered, quickly, “only I must 
talk with you once more alone.” 

“ Do you wish to hear my confession, Belita ?” 

“ Cease jesting now. I am no longer a child. My 
heart aches, and I must not conceal the cause.” 

“ Speak, speak ! How you look ! One might really 
be alarmed.” 

“If I only can! No one here tells you the truth; 
but I — I love you ; so I will do it, ere it is too late. 
Don’t interrupt me now, or I shall lose courage, and I 
will, I must speak.” 

“ My studies lately have not pleased you ; nor me 
either. Your father ” 

“ He has led you in false paths, and now you are 
going to Italy, and when you see what the greatest 
artists have created, you will wish to imitate them im- 
mediately and forget Meister Moor’s lessons. I know 
you, Ulrich, I know it ! But I also know something 
else, and it must now be said frankly. If you allow 
yourself to be led on to paint pictures, if you do not 
submit to again become a modest pupil, and honestly 
torment yourself with studying, you will make no pro- 
gress, you will never again accomplish a portrait like 
the one in the old days, like your Sophonisba. You 
will then be no great artist and you can, you must be- 
come one.” 

“ I will, Belita, I will !” 

“Well, well; but first be a pupil! If I were in 
your place, I would, for aught I care, go to Venice and 


212 A WORD, 

look about me, but from there I would ride to Fland- 
ers, to Moor, to the master.” 

“ Give up Italy? Can you be in earnest? Youi 

father, himself, told me, that I well, yes 

in portrait-painting, he too thinks I am no blunderer. 
Where do the Netherlander go to learn anything new ? 
To Italy, always to Italy ! What do they create in 
Flanders? Portraits, portraits, nothing more. Moor 
is great, very great in this department, but I take a very 
different view of art; it has higher aims. My head is 
full of plans. Wait, only wait ! In Italy I shall learn 
to fly, and when I have finished my Holy Family and 
my Temple of Art, with all the skill I intend to at- 
tain .... .” 

“ Then, then, what will happen then ?” 

“ Then you will perhaps change your opinion and 
cease your tutoring, once for all. This fault-finding, 
this warning vexes me. It spoils my pleasure, it clouds 
my fancy. You are poisoning my happiness, you — 
you the croaker’s voice is disagreeable to me.” 

Isabella sadly bent her head in silence. Ulrich ap- 
proached her, saying : 

“ I do not wish to wound you, Belita; indeed, I do 
not. You mean well, and you love me, a poor forsaken 
fellow ; do you not, little girl ?” 

“Yes, Ulrich, and that is just why I have told you 
what I think. You are rejoicing now in the thought of 
Italy ” 

“Very, very much, unspeakably! There, too, I 
will remember you, and what a dear, faithful, wise 
little creature you are. Let us part in friendship, 
Isabella. Come with me; that would be the best 
way !” 


ONLY A WORD. 


213 


The young girl flushed deeply, and made no answer 
except : “ How gladly I would !” 

The words sounded so affectionate and came so 
tenderly from the inmost depths of the heart, that they 
entered his soul. And while she spoke, her eyes gazed 
so faithfully, lovingly, and yearningly into his, that he 
saw nothing else. He read in them love, true, self- 
sacrificing love ; not like pretty Carmen’s or that given 
by the ladies, who had thrown flowers to him from their 
balconies. His heart swelled, and when he saw how 
the flush on Isabella’s dear face deepened under his 
answering glance, unspeakable gratitude and joy seized 
upon him, and he could not help clasping her in his 
arms and drawing her into his embrace. 

She permitted it, and when she looked up at him 
and her soft scarlet lips, from which gleamed two rows 
of dazzling white teeth, bloomed temptingly near him, 
he bent his, he knew not how, towards them. They 
kissed each other again and again, and Isabella flung 
her little hands around his neck, for she could not 
reach him with her arms, and said she had always 
loved him ; he assured her in an agitated voice that he 
believed it, and that there was no better, sweeter, 
brighter creature on earth than she; only he forgot to 
say that he loved her. She gave, he received, and it 
seemed to him natural. 

She saw and felt nothing except him and her happi- 
ness ; he was wholly absorbed by the bliss of being 
loved and the sweetness of her kiss ; so neither noticed 
that Coello had opened the door and watched them for 
a minute, with mingled wrath and pleasure, irresolutely 
shaking his head. 

When the court-artist’s deep voice exclaimed loudly: 


214 


A WORD, 


“Why, why, these are strange doings!” they hastily 
started back. 

Startled, sobered, confused, Ulrich sought for words, 
and at last stammered : 

“ We have, we wanted the farewell ” 

Coello found no time to interrupt him, for his 
daughter had thrown herself on his breast, exclaiming 
amid tears : 

“ Forgive us, father — forgive us; he loves me, and 
I, I love him so dearly, and now that we belong to each 
other, I am no longer anxious about him, he will not 
rest, and when he returns .... .” 

“ Enough, enough!” interrupted Coello, pressing his 
hand upon her mouth. “ That is why a duenna is kept 
for the child ; and this is my sensible Belita ! It is of 
no importance, that yonder youth has nothing, I my- 
self courted your mother with only three reales in my 
pocket, but he cannot yet do any really good work, 
and that alters the case. It is not my way to dun 
debtors, I have been in debt too often myself for that ; 
but you, Navarrete, have received many favors from me, 
when you were badly off, and if you are not a scamp, 
leave the girl in peace and do not see her again before 
your departure. When you have studied in Italy and 
become a real artist, the rest will take care of itself. You 
are already a handsome, well-formed fellow, and my 
race will not degenerate in you. There are very differ- 
ent women in Italy, from this dear little creature here. 
Shut your eyes, and beware of breaking her heart. Your 
promise! Your hand upon it! In a year and a half 
from to-day come here again, show what you can do, 
and stand the test. If you have become what I hope, 
I’ll give her to you ; if not, you can quietly go your 


ONLY A WORD. 


21 5 


way. You will make no objection to this, you silly 
little, love-sick thing. Go to your room now, Belita, 
and you, Navarrete, come with me.” 

Ulrich followed the artist to his chamber, where the 
latter opened a chest, in which lay the gold he had 
earned. He did not know himself, how much it was, 
for it was neither counted, nor entered in books. Grasp- 
ing the ducats, he gave Ulrich two handfuls, ex- 
claiming : 

“ This one is for your work here, the other to re- 
lieve you from any care concerning means of living, 
while pursuing your studies in Venice and Florence. 
Don’t make the child wretched, my lad ; if you do, you 
will be a contemptible, dishonorable rascal, a scoundrel, 
a. . . .but you don’t look like a rogue 1” 

There was a great deal of bustle in Coello’s house 
that evening. The artist’s indolent wife was unusually 
animated. She could not control her surprise and 
wrath. Isabella had been from childhood a great 
favorite of Herrera, the first architect in Spain, who 
had already expressed his love for the young girl, and 
now this vagabond pauper, this immature boy, had 
come to destroy the prosperity of her child’s life. 

She upbraided Coello with being faithless to his pa 
ternal duty, and called him a thoughtless booby. 
Instead of turning the ungrateful rascal out of the 
house, he, the dunce, had given him hopes of becoming 
her poor, dazzled, innocent daughter’s husband. 

During the ensuing weeks, Senora Petra prepared 
Coello many bad days and still worse nights ; but the 
painter persisted in his resolution to give Isabella to 
Ulrich, if in a year and a half he returned from Italy a 
skilful artist. 


2l6 


A WORD, 


CHAPTER XXL 

The admiral’s ship, which bore King Philip’s am- 
bassador to Venice, reached its destination safely, 
\hough it had encountered many severe storms on the 
voyage, during which Ulrich was the only passenger, 
who amid the rolling and pitching of the vessel, re- 
mained as well as an old sailor. 

But, on the other hand his peace of mind was 
greatly impaired, and any one who had watched him 
leaning over the ship’s bulwark, gazing into the sea, or 
pacing up and down with restless bearing and gloomy 
eyes, would scarcely have suspected that this reserved, 
irritable youth, who was only too often under the 
dominion of melancholy moods, had won only a short 
time before a noble human heart, and was on the way 
to the realization of his boldest dreams, the fulfilment 
of his most ardent wishes. 

How differently he had hoped to enter “ the Para- 
dise of Art !” 

Never had he been so free, so vigorous, so rich, as 
in the dawn of the day, at whose close he was to unite 
Isabella’s life with his own — and now — now! 

He had expected to wander through Italy from 
place to place as untrammelled, gay, and free as 
the birds in the air ; he had desired to see, admire, en- 
joy, and after becoming familiar with all the great 
artists, choose a new master among them. Sophonisba’s 
home was to have become his, and it had never entered 


ONLY A WORD. 


2I 7 


his mind to limit the period of his enjoyment and 
study on the sacred soil. 

How differently his life must now be ordered! Un- 
til he went on board of the ship in Valencia, the 
thought of calling a girl so good, sensible and loving 
as Isabella his own, rejoiced and inspired him, but 
during the solitary hours a sea- voyage so lavishly 
bestows, a strange transformation in his feelings oc- 
curred. 

The wider became the watery expanse between him 
and Spain, the farther receded Isabella’s memory, the 
less alluring and delightful grew the thought of possess- 
ing her hand. 

He now told himself that, before the fatal hour, he 
had rejoiced at the anticipation of escaping her pedan- 
tic criticism, and when he looked forward to the future 
and saw himself, handsome Ulrich Navarrete, whose 
superior height filled the smaller Castilians with 
envy, walking through the streets with his tiny wife, 
and perceived the smiles of the people they met, he was 
seized with fierce indignation against himself and his 
hard fate. 

He felt fettered like the galley-slaves, whose chains 
rattled and clanked, as they pulled at the oars in the 
ship’s waist. At other times he could not help recall- 
ing her large, beautiful, love-beaming eyes, her soft, red 
lips, and yearningly confess that it would have been 
sweet to hold her in his arms and kiss her, and, since 
he had forever lost his Ruth, he could find no more 
faithful, sensible, tender wife than she. 

But what should he, the student, the wandering disci- 
ple of Art, do with a bride, a wife ? The best and fairest 
of her sex would now h^yc seepied to him an impedi* 


2 1 8 


A WORD, 


merit, a wearisome clog. The thought of being 
obliged to accomplish some fixed task within a certain 
time, and then be subjected to an examination, curbed 
his enjoyment, oppressed, angered him. - 

Grey mists gathered more and more densely over 
the sunny land, for which he had longed with such pas- 
sionate ardor, and it seemed as if in that luckless hour, 
he had been faithless to the “ word,” — had deprived 
himself of its assistance forever. 

He often felt tempted to send Coello his ducats and 
tell him he had been hasty, and cherished no desire to wed 
his daughter ; but perhaps that would break the heart of 
the poor, dear little thing, who loved him so tenderly ! 
He would be no dishonorable ingrate, but bear the 
consequences of his own recklessness. 

Perhaps some miracle would happen in Italy, Art’s 
own domain. Perhaps the sublime goddess would 
again take him to her heart, and exert on him also the 
power Sophonisba had so fervently praised. 

The ambassador and his secretary, de Soto, thought 
Ulrich an unsocial dreamer ; but nevertheless, after they 
reached Venice, the latter invited him to share his 
lodgings, for Don Juan had requested him to interest 
himself in the young artist. 

What could be the matter with the handsome fellow ? 
The secretary tried to question him, but Ulrich did not 
betray what troubled him, only alluding in general 
terms to a great anxiety that burdened his mind. 

“ But the time is now coming when the poorest of 
the poor, the most miserable of all forsaken mortals, 
cast aside their griefs ! ” cried de Soto. “ Day after to- 
morrow the joyous Carnival season will begin ! Hold 
up your head, young man ! Cast your sorrows into the 


ONLY A WORD. 


219 


Grand Canal, and until Ash- Wednesday, imagine that 
heaven has fallen upon earth ! ” 

Oh ! blue sea, that washes the lagunes, oh ! mast- 
thronged Lido, oh ! palace of the Doges, that chains 
the eye, as well as the backward gazing, mind, oh ! 
dome of St. Mark, in thy incomparable garb of gold 
and paintings, oh ! ye steeds and other divine works of 
bronze, ye noble palaces, for which the still surface of 
the placid water serves as a mirror, thou square of St. 
Mark, where, clad in velvet, silk and gold, the richest 
and freest of all races display their magnificence, with just 
pride ! Thou harbor, thou forest of masts, thou count- 
less fleet of stately galleys, which bind one quarter of the 
globe to another, inspiring terror, compelling obedience, 
and gaining boundless treasures by peaceful voyages and 
with shining blades. Oh ! thou Rialto, where gold is 
stored, as wheat and rye are elsewhere ; — ye proud 
nobles, ye fair dames with luxuriant tresses, whose raven 
hue pleases ye not, and which ye dye as bright golden as 
the glittering zechins ye squander with such small, yet 
lavish hands ! Oh ! Venice, Queen of the sea, mother of 
riches, throne of power, hall of fame, temple of art, who 
could escape thy spell ! 

What wanton Spring is to the earth, thy carnival 
season is to thee ! It transforms the magnificence of 
color of the lagune-city into a dazzling radiance, the 
smiles to Olympic laughter, the love-whispers to exult- 
ant songs, the noisy, busy life of the mighty commer- 
cial city into a mad whirlpool, which draws everything 
into its circle, and releases nothing it has once seized. 

De Soto urged and pushed the youth, who had 
already lost his mental equipoise, into the midst of the 
gulf, ere he had found the right current, 

15 


220 


A WORD, 


On the barges, amid the throngs in the streets, at 
banquets, in ball-rooms, at the gaming-table, every- 
where, the young, golden-haired, superbly-dressed 
artist, who was on intimate terms with the Spanish 
king’s ambassador, attracted the attention of men, and 
the eyes, curiosity and admiration of the women ; though 
people as yet knew not whence he came. 

He chose the tallest and most stately of the slender 
dames of Venice to lead in the dance, or through the 
throng of masks and citizens intoxicated with the mirth 
of the carnival. Whithersoever he led the fairest fol- 
lowed. 

He wished to enjoy the respite before execution. 
To forget — to forget — to indemnify himself for future 
seasons of sacrifice, dulness, self-conquest, torment. 

Poor little Isabella ! Your lover sought to enjoy the 
sensation of showing himself to the crowd with the stateli- 
est woman in the company on his arm! And you, 
Ulrich, how did you feel when people exclaimed be- 
hind you : “ A splendid pair ! Look at that couple! ” 

Amid this ecstasy, he needed no helping word, 
neither “ fortune ” nor “ art ; ” without any magic spell 
he flew from pleasure to pleasure, through every 
changing scene, thinking only of the present and asking 
no questions about the future. 

Like one possessed he plunged into passion’s wild 
whirl. From the embrace of beautiful arms he rushed 
to the gaming-table, where the ducats he flung down 
soon became a pile of gold ; the zechins filled his purse 
to overflowing. 

The quickly-won treasure melted like snow in the 
sun, and returned again like stray doves to their open 
cote, 


ONLY A WORD. 


22 


The works of art were only enjoyed with drunken 
eyes — yet once more the gracious word exerted its 
wondrous power on the misguided youth. 

On Shrove-Tuesday, the ambassador took Ulrich to 
the great Titian. 

He stood face to face with the mighty monarch of 
colors, listened to gracious words from his lips, and saw 
the nonogenarian, whose tall figure was scarcely bowed, 
receive the king’s gifts. 

Never, never, to the close of his existence could he 
forget that face ! 

The features were as delicately and as clearly out- 
lined, as if cut with an engraver’s chisel from hard 
metal ; but pallid, bloodless, untinged by the faintest trace 
of color. The long, silver-white beard of the tall vener- 
able painter flowed in thick waves over his breast, and 
the eyes, with which he scanned Ulrich, were those of a 
vigorous, keen-sighted man. His voice did not sound 
harsh, but sad and melancholy; deep sorrow shadowed 
his glance, and stamped itself upon the mouth of him, 
whose thin, aged hand still ensnared the senses easily 
and surely with gay symphonies of color ! 

The youth answered the distinguished Master’s 
questions with trembling lips, and when Titian invited 
him to share his meal, and Ulrich, seated at the lower 
end of the table in the brilliant banqueting-hall, was 
told by his neighbors with what great men he was per- 
mitted to eat, he felt so timid, small, and insignificant, 
that he scarcely ventured to touch the goblets and de- 
licious viands the servants offered. 

He looked and listened; distinguishing his old 
master’s name, and hearing him praised without stint 
15 


222 


A WORD, 


as a portrait-painter. He was questioned about him, 
and gave confused answers. 

Then the guests rose. 

The February sun was shining into the lofty win- 
dow, where Titian seated himself to talk more gaily than 
before with Paolo Cagliari, Veronese, and other great 
artists and nobles. 

Again Ulrich heard Moor mentioned. Then the 
old man, from whom the youth had not averted his 
eyes for an instant, beckoned, and Cagliari called him, 
saying that he, the gallant Antonio Moor’s pupil, must 
now show what he could do; the Master, Titian, would 
give him a task. 

A shudder ran through his frame; cold drops of per- 
spiration, extorted by fear, stood on his brow. 

The old man now invited him to accompany his 
nephew to the studio. Daylight would last an hour 
longer. He might paint a Jew ; no usurer nor dealer in 
clothes, but one of the noble race of prophets, disciples, 
apostles. 

Ulrich stood before the easel. 

For the first time after a long period he again called 
upon the “ word,” and did so fervently, with all his heart. 
His beloved dead, who in the tumult of carnival mirth 
had vanished from his memory, again rose before his 
mind, among them the doctor, who gazed rebukingly at 
him with his clear, thoughtful eyes. 

Like an inspiration a thought darted through the 
youth’s brain. He could and would paint Costa, his 
friend and teacher, Ruth’s father. 

The portrait he had drawn when a boy appeared 
before his memory, feature for feature. 

A red pencil lay close at hand. 


ONLY A WORD. 


223 


Sketching the outlines with a few hasty strokes, he 
seized the brush, and while hurriedly guiding it and 
mixing the colors, he saw in fancy Costa standing 
before him, asking him to paint his portrait. 

Ulrich had never forgotten the mild expression of 
the eyes, the smile hovering about the delicate lips, and 
now delineated them as well as he could. The mo- 
ments slipped by, and the portrait gained roundness and 
life. The youth stepped back to see what it still 
needed, and once more called upon the “ word” from the 
inmost depths of his heart; at the same instant the door 
opened, and leaning on a younger painter, Titian, with 
several other artists, entered the studio. 

He looked at the picture, then at Ulrich, and said 
with an approving smile: “See, see! Not too much 
of the Jew, and a perfect apostle! A Paul, or with 
longer hair and a little more youthful aspect, an admir- 
able St. John. Well done, well done ! my son ! ” 

Well done, well done ! These words from Titian 
had ennobled his work ; they echoed loudly in his soul, 
and the measure of his bliss threatened to overflow, 
when no less a personage than the famous Paolo Ver- 
onese, invited him to come to his studio as a pupil on 
Saturday. 

Enraptured, animated by fresh hope, he threw him- 
self into his gondola. 

Everyone had left the palace, where he lodged with 
de Soto. Who would remain at home on the evening of 
Shrove-Tuesday ? 

The lonely rooms grew too confined for him. 

Quiet days would begin early the next morning, 
and on Saturday a new, fruitful life in the service of 
the only true word, Art, divine Art, would commence for 


224 


A WORD, 


him. He would enjoy this one more evening of pleas- 
ure, this night of joy; drain it to the dregs. He 
fancied he had won a right that day to taste every bliss 
earth could give. 

Torches, pitch-pans and lamps made the square of 
St. Mark’s as bright as day, and the maskers crowded 
upon its smooth pavement as if it were the floor of an 
immense ball-room. 

Intoxicating music, loud laughter, low, tender whis- 
pers, sweet odors from the floating tresses of fair women 
bewildered Ulrich’s senses, already confused by success 
and joy. He boldly accosted every one, and if he sus- 
pected that a fair face was concealed under a mask, 
drew nearer, touched the strings of a lute, that hung by 
a purple ribbon round his neck, and in the notes of a 
tender song besought love. 

Many a wave of the fan rewarded, many an angry 
glance from men’s dark eyes rebuked the bold wooer. 

A magnificent woman of queenly height now passed, 
leaning on the arm of a richly-dressed cavalier. 

Was not that the fair Claudia, who a short time be- 
fore had lost enormous sums at the gaming-table in the 
name of the rich Grimani, and who had invited Ulrich 
to visit her later, during Lent ? 

It was, he could not be mistaken, and now followed 
the pair like a shadow, growing bolder and bolder the 
more angrily the cavalier rebuffed him with wrathful 
glances and harsh words; for the lady did not cease to 
signify that she recognized him and enjoyed his playing. 

But the nobleman was not disposed to endure this 
offensive sport. Pausing in the middle of the square, 
he released his arm with a contemptuous gesture, saying : 
“ The lute-player, or I, my fair one ; you can decide : 


ONLY A WORD. 


225 


The Venetian laughed loudly, laid her hand on 
Ulrich’s arm and said : “ The rest of the Shrove-Tues- 
day night shall be yours, my merry singer.” 

Ulrich joined in her gayety, and taking the lute 
from his neck, offered it to the cavalier, with a de- 
fiant gesture, exclaiming: 

“ It’s at your disposal, Mask ; we have changed 
parts. But please hold it firmer than you held your lady.” 

High play went on in the gaming hall ; Claudia was 
lucky with the artist’s gold. 

At midnight the banker laid down the cards. It 
was Ash -Wednesday, the hall must be cleared; the 
quiet Lenten season had begun. 

The players withdrew into the adjoining rooms, 
among them the much-envied couple. 

Claudia threw herself upon a couch ; Ulrich left her 
to procure a gondola. 

As soon as he was gone, she was surrounded by a 
motley throng of suitors. 

How the beautiful woman’s dark eyes sparkled, how 
the gems on her full neck and dazzling arms glittered, 
how readily she uttered a witty repartee to each gay sally. 

“ Claudia unaccompanied ! ” cried a young noble. 
“ The strangest sight at this remarkable carnival ! ” 

“ I am fasting,” she answered gaily; “ and now that 
I long for meagre food, you come ! What a lucky 
chance ! ” 

“ Heavy Grimani has also become a very light man, 
with your assistance.” 

•‘That’s why he flew away. Suppose you follow 
him ? ” 

“ Gladly, gladly, if you will accompany me.” 

“ Excuse me to-day ; there comes my knight.” 


226 


A WORD, 


Ulrich had remained absent a long time, but Clau- 
dia had not noticed it. Now he bowed to the gentle- 
men, offered her his arm, and as they descended the 
staircase, whispered: “The mask who escorted you just 
now detained me; — and there . . . see, they are picking 
him up down there in the court-yard. — He attacked 
me. . . .” 

“You have — you. . .” 

“ They came to his assistance immediately. He 
barred my way with his unsheathed blade.” 

Claudia hastily drew her hand from the artist’s arm, 
exclaiming in a low, anxious tone : “ Go, go, unhappy 
man, whoever you may be ! It was Luigi Grimani ; it 
was a Grimani! You are lost, if they find you. Go, 
if you love your life, go at once !” 

So ended the Shrove-Tuesday, which had begun so 
gloriously for the young artist. Titian’s “ well done ” 
no longer sounded cheerfully in his ears, the “go, go,” 
of the venal woman echoed all the more loudly. 

De Soto was waiting for him, to repeat to him the high 
praise he had heard bestowed upon his art-test at 
Titian’s; but Ulrich heard nothing, for he gave the sec- 
retary no time to speak, and the latter could only echo 
the beautiful Claudia’s “ go, go !” and then smooth the 
way for his flight. 

When the morning of Ash- Wednesday dawned cool 
and misty, Venice lay behind the young artist. 

Unpursued, but without finding rest or satisfaction, 
he went to Parma, Bologna, Pisa, Florence. 

Grimani’s death burdened his conscience but lightly. 
Duelling was a battle in minature, to kill one’s foe no 
crime, but a victory. Far different anxieties tortured 
him. 


ONLY A WORD. 


227 


Venice, whither the “ word” had led him, from which 
he had hoped and expected everything, was lost to him, 
and with it Titian’s favor and Cagliari’s instruction. 

He began to doubt himself, his future, the sublime 
word and its magic spell. The greater the works which 
the traveller’s eyes beheld, the more insignificant he felt, 
the more pitiful his own powers, his own skill ap- 
peared. 

“ Draw, draw !” advised every master to whom he 
applied, as soon as he had seen his work. The great 
men, to whom he offered himself as a pupil, required 
years of persevering study. But his time was limited, 
for the misguided youth’s faithful German heart held 
firmly to one resolve ; he must present himself to Co- 
ello at the end of the appointed time. The happiness 
of his life was forfeited, but no one should obtain the 
right to call him faithless to his word, or a scoun- 
drel. 

In Florence he heard Sebastiano Filippi — who had 
been a pupil of Michael Angelo — praised as a good draw- 
er; so he sought him in Ferrara and found him ready 
to teach him what he still lacked. But the works of 
the new master did not please him. The youth, accus- 
tomed to Moor’s wonderful clearness, Titian’s brilliant 
hues, found Filippi’s pictures indistinct, as if veiled by 
grey mists. Yet he forced himself to remain with him 
for months, for he was really remarkably skilful in 
drawing, and his studio never lacked nude models ; he 
needed them for the preliminary studies for his ‘Day of 
Judgment.’ 

Without satisfaction, without pleasure in the weari- 
some work, without love for the sickly master, who held 
aloof from any social intercourse with him when the 


228 


A WORD, 


hours of labor were over, he felt discontented, bored, 
disenchanted. 

In the evening he sought diversion at the gaming- 
table, and fortune favored him here as it had done in 
Venice. His purse overflowed with zechins; but with the 
red gold, Art withdrew from him her powerful ally, nec- 
essity, the pressing need of gaining a livelihood by the 
exertion of his own strength. 

He spent the hours appointed for study like a care- 
less lover, and worked without inclination, without 
pleasure, without ardor, yet with visible increase of 
skill. 

In gambling he forgot what tortured him, it stirred 
his blood, dispelled weariness; the gold was nothing 
to him. 

The lion’s share of his gains he loaned to broken 
gamblers, without expectation of return, gave to starv- 
ing artists, or flung with lavish hand to beggars. 

So the months in Ferrara glided by, and when the 
allotted time was over, he took leave of Sebastiano 
Filippi without regret. He returned by sea to Spain, and 
arrived in Madrid richer than he had gone away, but 
with impoverished confidence in his own powers, and 
doubting the omnipotence of Art. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Ulrich again stood before the Alcazar, and recalled 
the hour when, a poor lad, just escaped from prison, he 
had been harshly rebuffed by the same porter, who now 


ONLY A WORD. 


229 


humbly saluted the young gentleman attired in costly 
velvet. 

And yet how gladly he would have crossed this 
threshold poor as in those days, but free and with a 
soul full of enthusiasm and hope; how joyfully he would 
have effaced from his life the years that lay between 
that time and the present. 

He dreaded meeting the Coellos ; nothing but honor 
urged him to present himself to them. 

Yes — and if the old man rejected him ? — so much 
the better ! 

The old cheerful confusion reigned in the studio. 
He had a long time to wait there, and then heard 
through several doors Senora Petra’s scolding voice and 
her husband’s angry replies. 

At last Coello came to him and after greeting him, 
first formally, then cordially, and enquiring about his 
health and experiences, he shrugged his shoulders, 
saying : 

“ My wife does not wish you to see Isabella again 
before the trial. You must show what you can do, of 

course ; but I you look well and apparently have 

collected reales . Or is it true,” and he moved his hand 
as if shaking a dice-box. “ He who wins is a good 
fellow, but we want no more to do with such people 
here! You find me the same as of old, and you have 
returned at the right time, that is something. De Soto 
has told me about your quarrel in Venice. The great 
masters were pleased with you and this, you Hotspur, 
you forfeited! Ferrara for Venice! A poor exchange. 

Filippi — understands drawing; but otherwise 

Michael Angelo’s pupil ! Does he still write on his 
back ? Every monk is God’s servant, but in how few 


230 


A WORD. 


does the Lord dwell! What have you drawn with 
Sebastiano ?” 

Ulrich answered these questions in a subdued tone ; 
and Coello listened with only partial attention, for he 
heard his wife telling the duenna Catalina in an adjoining 
room what she thought of her husband’s conduct. She 
did so very loudly, for she wished to be overheard by 
him and Ulrich. But she was not to obtain her pur- 
pose, for Coello suddenly interrupted the returned 
traveller’s story, saying: 

“This is getting beyond endurance. If she does 
her utmost, you shall see Isabella. A welcome, a grasp 
of the hand, nothing more. Poor young lovers! If 
only it did not require such a confounded number of 
things to live. . . .Well, we will see !” 

As soon as the artist had entered the adjoining 
room, a new and more violent quarrel arose there, but, 
though Senora Petra finally called a fainting-fit to her 
aid, her husband remained firm, and at last returned to 
the studio with Isabella. 

Ulrich had awaited her, as a criminal expects his 
sentence. Now she stood before him led by her father’s 
hand — and he, he struck his forehead with his fist, 
closed his eyes and opened them again to look at her 
— to gaze as if he beheld a wondrous apparition. Then 
feeling as if he should die of shame, grief, and joyful 
surprise, he stood spellbound, and knew not what to do, 
save to extend both hands to her, or what to say, save : 
“ I . . . I — I,” then with a sudden change of tone ex- 
claimed like a madman : 

“You don’t know! I am not. . . .Give me time, 
master. Plere, here, girl, you must, you shall, all must 
not be over !” 


ONLY A WORD. 


S3’ 


He had opened his arms wide, and now hastily ap- 
proached her with the eager look of the gambler, who 
has staked his last penny on a card. 

Coello’s daughter did not obey. 

She was no longer little, unassuming Belita; here 
stood no child, but a beautiful, blooming maiden. In 
eighteen months her figure had gained height ; anxious 
yearning and constant contention with her mother had 
wasted her superabundance of flesh; her face had be- 
come oval, her bearing self-possessed. Her large, clear 
eyes now showed their full beauty, her half-developed 
features had acquired exquisite symmetry, and her 
raven-black hair floated, like a shining ornament, 
around her pale, charming face. 

“ Happy will be the man, who is permitted to call 
this woman his own !” cried a voice in the youth’s 
breast, but another voice whispered : “ Lost, lost, for- 

feited, trifled away !” 

Why did she not obey his call ? Why did she not 
rush into his open arms ? Why, why ? 

He clenched his fists, bit his lips, for she did not 
stir, except to press closely to her father’s side. 

This handsome, splendidly-dressed gentleman, with 
the pointed beard, deep-set eyes, and stern, gloomy 
gaze, was an entirely different person from the gay en- 
thusiastic follower of art, for whom her awakening 
heart had first throbbed more quickly ; this was not 
the future master, who stood before her mind as a 
glorious favorite of fortune and the muse, transfigured 
by joyous creation and lofty success — this defiant giant 
did not look like an artist. No, no; yonder man no 
longer resembled the Ulrich, to whom, ifi the happiest 


A WORD, 


232 

hour of her life, she had so willingly, almost too will- 
ingly, offered her pure lips. 

Isabella’s young heart contracted with a chill, yet 
she saw that he longed for her ; she knew, could not 
deny, that she had bound herself to him body and soul, 
and yet — yet, she would so gladly have loved him. 

She strove to speak, but could find no words, save 
“ Ulrich, Ulrich,” and these did not sound gay and joy- 
ous, but confused and questioning. 

Coello felt her fingers press his shoulder closer and 
closer. She was surely seeking protection and aid 
from him, to keep her promise and resist her lover’s pas- 
sionate appeal. 

Now, his darling’s eyes filled with tears, and he felt 
the tremor of her limbs. 

Softened by affectionate weakness and no longer 
able to resist the impulse to see his little Belita happy, 
he whispered : 

“ Poor thing, poor young lovers ! Do as you choose, 
I won’t look.” 

But Isabella did not leave him ; she only drew her- 
self up higher, summoned all her courage and looking 
the returned traveller more steadily in the face, said : 

“ You are so changed, so entirely changed, Ulrich I 
cannot tell what has come over me. I have anticipated 
this hour day and night, and now it is here; — what is 
this ? What has placed itself between us ? ” 

“ What, indeed !” he indignantly exclaimed, advan- 
cing towards her with a threatening air. What ? Surely 
you must know! Your mother has destroyed your re- 
gard for the poor bungler. Here I stand ! Have I kept 
my promise, yes or no ? Have I become a monster, a 
venomous serpent ? Do not look at me so again, do 


ONLV a word. 


233 


not! It will do no good; to you or me. I will not 
allow myself to be trifled with ! ” 

Ulrich had shouted these words, as if some great in- 
justice had been done him, and he believed himself in 
the right. • 

Coello tried to release himself from his daughter, to 
confront the passionately excited man, but she held him 
back, and with a pale face and trembling voice, but 
proud and resolute manner, answered : 

“ No one has trifled with you, I least of all; my love 
has been earnest, sacred earnest.” 

“ Earnest! ” interrupted Ulrich, with cutting irony. 
“ Yes, yes, sacred earnest; — and when my mother 
told me you had killed a man and left Venice for a 
worthless woman’s sake, when it was rumored, that in 
Ferrara you had become a gambler, I thought: ‘I 
know him better, they are slandering him to destroy the 
love you bear in your heart.’ I did not believe it; — • 
but now I do. I believe it, and shall do so, till you 
have withstood your trial. For the gambler I am too 
good, to the artist Navarrete I will joyfully keep my 
promise. Not a word, I will hear no more. Come, 
father! If he loves me, he will understand how to win 
me. I am afraid of this man.” 

Ulrich now knew who was in fault, and who in the 
right. Strong impulse urged him away from the studio, 
away from Art and his betrothed bride ; for he had for- 
feited all the best things in life. 

But Coello barred his way. He was not the man, 
for the sake of a brawl and luck at play, to break 
friendship with the faithful companion, who had shown 
distinctly enough how fondly he loved his darling. 
He had hidden behind these bushes himself in his 


234 


A WORD, 


youth, and yet become a skilful artist and gooo hus- 
band. 

He willingly yielded to his wife in small matters, in 
important ones he meant to remain master of the house. 

Herrera wa$ a great scholar and artist, but an insig- 
nificant man ; and he allowed himself to be paid like a 
bungler. Ulrich’s manly beauty had pleased him, and 
under his, Coello’s teaching, he would make his mark. 

He, the father, knew better what suited Isabella than 
she herself. Girls do not sob so bitterly as she had 
done, as soon as the door of the studio closed behind 
her, unless they are in love. 

Whence did she obtain this cool judgment ? Cer- 
tainly not from him, far less from her mother. 

Perhaps she only wished to arouse Navarrete to do 
his best at the trial. Coello smiled ; it was in his power 
to judge mildly. 

So he detained Ulrich with cheering words, and 
gave him a task in which he could probably succeed. 
He was to paint a Madonna and Child, and two months 
were allowed him for the work. There was a studio in 
the Casa del Campo, he could paint there and need only 
promise never to visit the Alcazar before the comple- 
tion of the work. 

Ulrich consented. 

Isabella must be his. 

Scorn for scorn ! 

She should learn which was the stronger. 

He knew not whether he loved or hated her, but 
her resistance had passionately inflamed his longing to 
call her his. He was determined, by summoning all 
his powers, to create a masterpiece. What Titian had 
approved must satisfy a Coello ! so he began the task. 


ONLY A WORD. 


235 


A strong impulse urged him to sketch boldly and 
without long consideration, the picture of the Madonna, 
as it had once lived in his soul, but he restrained him- 
self, repeating the warning words which had so often 
been dinned into his ears : Draw, draw ! 

A female model was soon founds but instead of 
trusting his eyes and boldly reproducing what he be- 
held, he measured again and again, and effaced what 
the red pencil had finished. While painting his cour- 
age rose, for the hair, flesh, and dress seemed to him to 
become true to nature and effective. But he, who in 
better times had bound himself heart and soul to Art 
and served her with his whole soul, in this picture 
forced himself to a method of work, against which his 
inmost heart rebelled. His model was beautiful, but he 
could read nothing in the regular features, except that 
they were fair, and the lifeless countenance became dis- 
tasteful to him. The boy too caused him great 
trouble, for he lacked appreciation of the charm of 
childish innocence, the spell of childish character. 

Meantime he felt great secret anxiety. The impulse 
that moved his brush was no longer the divine pleasure 
in creation of former days, but dread of failure, and 
ardent, daily increasing love for Isabella. 

Weeks elapsed. 

Ulrich lived in the lonely little palace to which he 
had retired, avoiding all society, toiling early and late 
with restless, joyless industry, at a work which pleased 
him less with every new day. 

Don Juan of Austria sometimes met him in the 
park. Once the Emperor’s son called to him : 

“ Well, Navarrete, how goes the enlisting?” 

But Ulrich would not abandon his art, though he 
16 


A WORD, 


236 

had long doubted its omnipotence. The nearer the 
second month approached its close, the more fre- 
quently, the more fervently he called upon the “ word,” 
but it did not hear. 

When it grew dark, a strong impulse urged him to 
go to the city, seek brawls, and forget himself at the 
gaming-table ; but he did not yield, and to escape the 
temptation, fled to the church, where he spent whole 
hours, till the sacristan put out the lights. 

He was not striving for communion with the highest 
things, he felt no humble desire for inward purification ; 
far different motives influenced him. 

Inhaling the atmosphere laden with the soft music 
of the organ and the fragrant incense, he could converse 
with his beloved dead, as if they were actually present; 
the wayward man became a child, and felt all the gen- 
tle, tender emotions of his early youth again stir his 
heart. 

One night during the last week before the expiration of 
the allotted time, a thought which could not fail to lead 
him to his goal, darted into his brain like a reve- 
lation. 

A beautiful woman, with a child standing in her 
lap, adorned the canvas. 

What efforts he had made to lend these features the 
right expression. 

Memory should aid him to gain his purpose. What 
woman had ever been fairer, more tender and loving 
than his own mother ? 

He distinctly recalled her eyes and lips, and during 
the last few days remaining to him, his Madonna ob- 
tained Florette’s joyous expression, while the sensual, 
alluring charm, that had been peculiar to the mouth of 


ONLY A WORD. 


237 


the musician’s daughter, soon hovered around the Vir- 
gin’s lips. 

Ay, this was a mother, this must be a true mother, 
for the picture resembled his own ! 

The gloomier the mood that pervaded his own soul, 
:he more sunny and bright the painting seemed. He 
rould not weary of gazing at it, for it transported him to 
the happiest hours of his childhood, and when the Ma- 
donna looked down upon him, it seemed as if he beheld 
the balsams behind the window of the smithy in the 
market-place, and again saw the handsome nobles, who 
lifted him from his laughing mother’s lap to set him on 
their shoulders. 

Yes ! In this picture he had been aided by the “ joy- 
ous art,” in whose honor Paolo Veronese, had at one of 
Titian’s banquets, started up, drained a glass of wine to 
the dregs, and hurled it through the window into the 
canal. 

He believed himself sure of success, and could no 
longer cherish anger against Isabella. She had led him 
back into the right path, and it would be sweet, rap- 
turously sweet, to bear the beloved maiden tenderly and 
gently in his strong arms over the rough places of 
life. 

One morning, according to the agreement, he noti- 
fied Coello that the Madonna was completed. 

The Spanish artist appeared at noon, but did not 
come alone, and the man, who preceded him, was no less 
important a personage than the king himself. 

With throbbing heart, unable to utter a single word, 
Ulrich opened the door of the studio, bowing low be- 
fore the monarch, who without vouchsafing him a single 
glance, walked solemnly to the painting. 

16 


238 


A WORD, 


Coello drew aside the cloth that covered it, and the 
sarcastic chuckle Ulrich had so often heard instantly 
echoed from the king’s lips ; then turning to Coello he 
angrily exclaimed, loud enough to be heard by the 
young artist : 

“ Scandalous ! Insulting, offensive botchwork ! A 
Bacchante in the garb of a Madonna ! And the child ! 
Look at those legs ! When he grows up, he may be- 
come a dancing-master. He who paints such Madon- 
nas should drop his colors! His place is the stable — 
among refractory horses.” 

Coello could make no reply, but the king, glancing 
at the picture again, cried wrathfully : 

“ A Christian’s work, a Christian’s ! What does the 
reptile who painted this know of the mother, the Virgin, 
the stainless lily, the thornless rose, the path by which 
God came to men, the mother of sorrow, who bought 
the world with her tears, as Christ did with His sacred 
blood. I have seen enough, more than enough ! Es- 
covedo is waiting for me outside! We will discuss the 
triumphal arch to-morrow !” 

Philip left the studio, the court-artist accompany- 
ing him to the door. 

When he returned, the unhappy youth was still 
standing in the same place, gazing, panting for breath, 
at his condemned work. 

“ Poor fellow !” said Coello, compassionately, ap- 
proaching him; but Ulrich interrupted, gasping in 
broken accents : 

“ And you, you ? Your verdict !” 

The other shrugged his shoulders and answered 
with sincere pity : 

“ His Majesty is not indulgent; but come here and 


ONLY A WORD. 


2 39 


look yourself. I will not speak of the child, though it . . . 
In God’s name, let us leave it as it is. The picture im- 
presses me as it did the king, and the Madonna — I grieve 
to say it, she belongs anywhere rather than in Heaven. 
How often this subject is painted ! If Meister Antonio, 
if Moor should see this . . . 

“ Then, then ? ” asked Ulrich, his eyes glowing with 
a gloomy fire. 

“He would compel you to begin at the beginning 
once more. I am sincerely sorry for you, and not less so 
for poor Belita. My wife will triumph ! You know I have 
always upheld your cause ; but this luckless work . . 

“ Enough ! ” interrupted the youth. Rushing to the 
picture, he thrust his maul-stick through it, then kicked 
easel and painting to the floor. 

Coello, shaking his head, watched him, and tried to 
soothe him with kindly words, but Ulrich paid no heed, 
exclaiming: 

“ It is all over with art, all over. A Dios, Master ! 
Your daughter does not care for love without art, and 
art and I have nothing more to do with each other. ” 

At the door he paused, strove to regain his self-con- 
trol, and at last held out his hand to Coello, who was 
gazing sorrowfully after him. 

The artist gladly extended his, and Ulrich, press- 
ing it warmly, murmured in an agitated, trembling 
voice : 

“ Forgive this raving ... It is only ... I only feel, 
as if I was bearing all that had been dear to me to the 
grave. Thanks, Master, thanks for many kindnesses. 
I am, I have — my heart — my brain, everything is con- 
fused. I only know that you, that Isabella, have been 
kind to me, and I, I have — it will kill me yet ! Good 


240 


A WORD, 


fortune gone! Art gone! A Dios, treacherous world! 
A Dios, divine art ! ” 

As he uttered the last sentence he drew his hand 
from the artist’s grasp, rushed back into the studio, and 
with streaming eyes pressed his lips to the palette, the 
handle of the brush, and his ruined picture; then he 
dashed past Coello into the street. 

The artist longed to go to his child ; but the king 
detained him in the park. At last he was permitted to 
return to the Alcazar. 

Isabella was waiting on the steps, before the door of 
their apartments. She had stood there a long, long 
time. 

“ Father ! ” she called. 

Coello looked up sadly and gave an answer in the 
negative by compassionately waving his hand. 

The young girl shivered, as if a chill breeze had 
struck her, and when the artist stood beside her, she 
gazed enquiringly at him with her dark eyes, which 
looked larger than ever in the pallid, emaciated face, and 
said in a low, firm tone : 

“ I want to speak to him. You will take me to the 
picture. I must see it. ” 

“ He has thrust his maul-stick through it. Believe 
me, child, you would have condemned it yourself. ” 

“ And yet, yet ! I must see it, * she answered earn- 
estly, “see it with these eyes. I feel, I know — he is 
an artist. Wait, I’ll get my mantilla. ” 

Isabella hurried back with flying feet, and when a 
short time after, wearing the black lace kerchief on her 
head, she descended the staircase by her father’s side, 
the private secretary de Soto came towards them, ex- 
claiming : 


ONLY A WORD. 


241- 


“ Do you want to hear the latest news, Coello ? 
Your pupil Navarrete has become faithless to you and 
the noble art of painting. Don Juan gave him the 
enlistment money fifteen minutes ago. Better be a good 
trooper, than a mediocre artist ! What is the matter, 
Senorita ? ” 

“ Nothing, nothing, ” Isabella murmured gently, 
and fell fainting on her father’s breast. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Two years had passed. A beautiful October day 
was dawning ; no cloud dimmed the azure sky, and the 
sun’s disk rose, glowing crimson, behind the narrow 
strait, that afforded ingress to the Gulf of Corinth. 

The rippling waves of the placid sea, which here 
washed the sunny shores of Hellas, yonder the shady 
coasts of the Peloponnesus, glittered like fresh blooming 
blue-bottles. 

Bare, parched rocks rise in naked beauty at the 
north of the bay, and the rays of the young day-star 
shot golden threads through the light white mists, 
that floated around them. 

The coast of Morea faces the north ; so dense shad- 
ows still rested on the stony olive-groves and the dark 
foliage of the pink laurel and oleander bushes, whose 
dense clumps followed the course of the stream and 
filled the ravines. 

How still, how pleasant it usually was here in the 
early morning ! 

White sea-gulls hovered peacefully over the waves, 


242 


A WORD, 


a fishing-boat or galley glided gently along, making 
shining furrows in the blue mirror of the water ; but to- 
day the waves curled under the burden of countless 
ships, to-day thousands of long oars lashed the sea, till 
the surges splashed high in the air with a wailing, 
clashing sound. To-day there was a loud clanking, 
rattling, roaring on both sides of the water-gate, which 
afforded admittance to the Bay of Lepanto. 

The roaring and shouting reverberated in mighty 
echoes from the bare northern cliffs, but were subdued 
by the densely wooded southern shore. 

Two vast bodies of furious foes confronted each other 
like wrestlers, who stretch their sinewy arms to grasp 
and hurl their opponents to the ground. 

Pope Pius the Fifth had summoned Christianity to 
resist the land-devouring power of the Ottomans. Cy- 
prus, Christian Cyprus, the last province Venice possessed 
in the Levant, had fallen into the hands of the Moslems. 
Spain and Venice had formed an alliance with Christ’s 
vicegerent ; Genoese, other Italians, and the Knights of 
St. John were assembling in Messina to aid the league. 

The finest and largest Christian armada, which had 
left a Christian port for a long time, put forth to sea 
from this harbor. In spite of all intrigues, King Philip 
had entrusted the chief command to his young half- 
brother, Don Juan of Austria. 

The Ottomans too had not been idle, and with twelve 
myriads of soldiers on three hundred ships, awaited 
the foe in the Gulf of Lepanto. 

Don Juan made no delay. The Moslems had re- 
cently murdered thousands of Christians at Cyprus, an 
outrage the fiery hero could not endure, so he cast to 
the winds the warnings and letters of counsel from 


ONLY A WORD. 


243 


Madrid, which sought to curb his impetuous energy ; 
his troops, especially the Venetians, were longing for 
vengeance. 

But the Moslems were no less eager for the fray, and 
at the close of his council-of-war, and contrary to its 
decision, Kapudan Pacha sailed to meet the enemy. 

On the morning of October 7th every ship, every 
man was ready for battle. 

The sun appeared, and from the Spanish ships mu- 
sical bell-notes rose towards heaven, blending with the 
echoing chant : “ Allahu akbar , allahii akbar , allahu 
akbar , ” and the devout words : “ There is no God save 
Allah, arid Mohammed is the prophet of Allah; to 
prayer !” 

“To prayer ! ” The iron tongue of the bell uttered 
the summons, as well as the resonant voice of the 
Muezzin, who to-day did not call the worshippers to 
devotion from the top of a minaret, but from the mast- 
head of a ship. On both sides of the narrow sea- 
gate, thousands of Moslems and Christians thought, 
hoped and believed, that the Omnipotent One heard 
them. 

The bells and chanting died away, and a swift galley 
with Don Juan on board, moved from ship to ship. The 
young hero, holding a crucifix in his hand, shouted 
encouraging words to the Christian soldiers. 

The blare of trumpets, roll of drums, and shouts 
of command echoed from the rocky shores. 

The armada moved forward, the admiral’s galley, 
with Don Juan, at its head. 

The Turkish fleet advanced to meet it. 

The young lion no longer asked the wise counsel of 
the experienced admiral. He desired nothing, thought 


244 


A WORD, 


of nothing, issued no orders, except “forward,” “attack,” 
“board,” “kill,” “sink,” “destroy!” 

The hostile fleets dashed into the fight as bulls, bel- 
lowing sullenly, rush upon each other with lowered heads 
and bloodshot eyes. 

Who, on this day of vengeance, thought of Marco 
Antonio Colonna’s plan of battle, or the wise counsels 
of Doria, Venieri, Giustiniani ? 

Not the clear brain and keen eye — but manly cour- 
age and strength would turn the scale to-day. 

Alexander Farnese, Prince of Parma, had joined his 
young uncle a short time before, and now commanded 
a squadron of Genoese ships in the front. He was to 
keep back till Doria ordered him to enter the battle. 
But Don Juan had already boarded the vessel com- 
manded by the Turkish admiral, scaled the deck, and 
with a heavy sword-stroke felled Kapudan Pacha. 

Alexander witnessed the scene, his impetuous, heroic 
courage bore him on, and he too ordered : “ Forward !” 

What was the huge ship he was approaching ? The 
silver crescent decked its scarlet pennon, rows of cannon 
poured destruction from its sides, and its lofty deck was 
doubly defended by bearded wearers of the turban. 

It was the treasure-galley of the Ottoman fleet. 
It would be a gallant achievement could the prince 
vanquish this bulwark, this stronghold of the foe ; which 
was three times greater in size, strength, and number of 
its crew, than Farnese’s vessel. What did he care, 
what recked he of the shower of bullets and tar-hoops 
that awaited him ? 

Up and at them . 

Doria made warning signals, but the prince paid no 
heed, he would neither see nor hear them. 


OiNii-V A WORD. 


2 '15 

Brave soldiers fell bleeding and gasping on die deck 
beside him, his mast was split and came crashing down. 
“ Who’ll follow me?” he shouted, resting his hand on 
the bulwark. 

The tried Spanish warriors, with whom Don Juan 
had manned his vessel, hesitated. Only one stepped 
mutely and resolutely to his side, flinging over his 
shoulder the two-handed sword, whose hilt nearly 
reached to the tall youth’s eyes. 

Every one on board knew the fair-haired giant. It 
was the favorite of the commander in chief — it was 
Navarrete, who in the war against the Moors of Cadiz 
and Baza had performed many an envied deed of valor. 
His arm seemed made of steel; he valued his life no 
more than one of the plumes in his helmet, and risked it 
in battle as recklessly as he did his zechins at the gam- 
ing-table. 

Here, as well as there, he remained the winner. 

No one knew exactly whence he came as he never 
mentioned his family, for he was a reserved, unsocial 
man; but on the voyage to Lepanto he had formed a 
friendship with a sick soldier, Don Miguel Cervantes. 
The latter could tell marvellous tales, and had his own 
peculiar opinions about everything between heaven and 
earth. 

Navarrete, who carried his head as high as the 
proudest grandee, devoted every leisure hour to his 
suffering comrade, uniting the affection of a brother, 
with the duties of a servant. 

It was known that Navarrete had once been an 
artist, and he seemed one of the most fervent of the de- 
vout Castilians, for he entered every church and chapel 
the army passed, and remained standing a long, long 


246 


A WORD, 


time before many a Madonna and altar-painting as if 
spellbound. 

Even the boldest dared not attack him, for death 
hovered over his sword, yet his heart had not hardened. 
He gave winnings and booty with lavish hand, and 
every beggar was sure of assistance. 

He avoided women, but sought the society of the 
sick and wounded, often watching all night beside the 
couch of some sorely-injured comrade, and this led to 
the rumor that he liked to witness death. 

Ah, no ! The heart of the proud, lonely man only 
sought a place where it might be permitted to soften ; 
the soldier, bereft of love, needed some nook where 
he could exercise on others what was denied to himself : 
“ devoted affection.” 

Alexander Farnese recognized in Navarrete the horse- 
tamer of the picadero in Madrid ; he nodded approvingly 
to him, and mounted the bulwark. But the other did 
not follow instantly, for his friend Don Miguel had 
joined him, and asked to share the adventure. Nav- 
arrete and the captain strove to dissuade the sick 
man, but the latter suddenly felt cu,red of his fever, and 
with flashing eyes insisted on having his own way. 

Ulrich did not wait for the end of the dispute, for 
Farnese was now springing into the hostile ship, and the 
former, with a bold leap, followed. 

Alexander, like himself, carried a two-handed sword, 
and both swung them as mowers do their scythes. 
They attacked, struck, felled, and the foremost foes 
shrank from the grim destroyers. Mustapha Pacha, the 
treasurer and captain of the galley, advanced in person 
to confront the terrible Christians, and a sword-stroke 
from Alexander shattered the hand that held the 


ONLY A WORD. 


247 


curved sabre, a second stretched the Moslem on the 
deck. 

But the Turks’ numbers were greatly superior and 
threatened to crush the heroes, when Don Miguel Cer- 
vantes, Ulrich’s friend, appeared with twelve fresh sol - 
diers on the scene of battle, and cut their way to the 
hard-pressed champions. Other Spanish and Genoese 
warriors followed and the fray became still more furious. 

Ulrich had been forced far away from his royal com- 
panion-in-arms, and was now swinging his blade beside 
his invalid friend. Don Miguel’s breast was already 
bleeding from two wounds, and he now fell by Ulrich’s 
side ; a bullet had broken his left arm. 

Ulrich stooped and raised him ; his men surrounded 
him, and the Turks were scattered, as the tempest sweeps 
clouds from the mountain. 

Don Miguel tried to lift the sword, which had 
dropped from his grasp, but he only clutched the empty 
air, and raising his large eyes as if in ecstasy, pressed 
his hand upon his bleeding breast, exclaiming enthusias- 
tically: “Wounds are stars; they point the way to the 
heaven of fame — of fame ...” 

His senses failed, and Ulrich bore him in his strong 
aims to a part of the treasure-ship, which was held by 
Genoese soldiers. Then he rushed into the fight again, 
while in his ears still rang his friend’s fervid words : 

“ The heaven of fame !” 

That was the last, the highest aim of man ! Fame, 
yes surely fame was the “ word it should henceforth 
be his word ! 

It seemed as if a gloomy multitude of heavy thunder- 
clouds had gathered over the still, blue arm of the sea. 
The stifling smoke of powder darkened the clear sky 


248 


A WORD, 


like black vapors, while flashes of lightning and peals 
of thunder constantly illumined and shook the dusky 
atmosphere. 

Here a magazine flew through the air, there one 
ascended with a fierce crash towards the sky. Wails of 
pain and shouts of victory, the blare of trumpets, the 
crash of shattered ships and falling masts blended in 
hellish uproar. 

The sun’s light was obscured, but the gigantic frames 
of huge burning galleys served for torches to light the 
combatants. 

When twilight closed in, the Christians had gained a 
decisive victory. Don Juan had killed the commander- 
in-chief of the Ottoman force, Ali Pacha, as Farnese 
hewed down the treasurer. Uncle and nephew emerged 
from the battle as heroes worthy of renown, but the 
glory of this victory clung to Don Juan’s name. 

Farnese’s bold assault was kindly rebuked by the 
commander-in-chief, and when the former praised Nav- 
arrete’s heroic aid before Don Juan, the general gave 
the bold warrior and gallant trooper, the honorable 
commission of bearing tidings of the victory to the king. 

Two galleys stood out to sea in a westerly direction 
at the same time: a Spanish one, bearing Don Juan’s 
messenger, and a Venetian ship, conveying the courier of 
the Republic. 

The rowers of both vessels had much difficulty in 
forcing a way through the wreckage, broken masts 
and planks, the multitude of dead bodies and net 
work of cordage, which covered the surface of the water; 
but even amid these obstacles the race began. 

The wind and sea were equally favorable to both 
galleys; but the Venetians outstripped the Spaniards 


ONLY A WORD. 


249 


and dropped anchor at Alicante twenty-four hours before 
the latter. 

It was the rider’s task, to make up for the time lost 
by the sailors. The messenger of the Republic was far 
in advance of the general’s. Everywhere that Ulrich 
changed horses, displaying at short intervals the prophet’s 
banner, which he was to deliver to the king as the fair- 
est trophy of victory — it was inscribed with Allah’s 
name twenty-eight thousand nine hundred times — he 
met rejoicing throngs, processions, and festal decorations. 

Don Juan’s name echoed from the lips of men and 
women, girls and children. This was fame, this was 
the omnipresence of a god ; there could be no higher 
aspiration for him, who had obtained such honor. 

Fame, fame! again echoed in Ulrich’s soul; if there 
is a word, which raises a man above himself and implants 
his own being in that of millions of fellow-creatures, it 
is this. 

And now he urged one steed after another until it 
broke down, giving himself no rest even at night; half 
an hour’s ride outside of Madrid he overtook the 
Venetian, and passed by him with a courteous greeting. 

The king was not in the capital, and he went on 
without delay to the Escurial. 

Covered with dust, splashed from head to foot with 
mud, bruised, tortured as if on the rack, he clung to the 
saddle, yet never ceased to use whip and spur, and would 
trust his message to no other horseman. 

Now the barren peaks of the Guadarrama mountains 
lay close before him, now he reached the first work- 
shops, where iron was being forged for the gigantic pal- 
ace in process of building. How many chimneys 
smoked, how many hands were toiling for this edifice, 


A WORD, 


250 

which was to comprise a royal residence, a temple, a 
peerless library, a museum and a tomb. 

Numerous carts and sledges, on which blocks of 
light grey granite had been drawn hither, barred his 
way. He rode around them at the peril of falling with 
his horse over a precipice, and now found himself before 
a labyrinth of scaffolds and free-stone, in the midst of a 
wild, grey, treeless mountain valley. What kind of a 
man was this, who had chosen this desert for his home, 
in life as well as in death ! The Escurial suited King 
Philip, as King Philip suited the Escurial. Here he 
felt most at ease, from here the royal spider ceaselessly 
entangled the world in his skilful nets. 

His majesty was attending vespers in the scarcely 
completed chapel. The chief officer of the palace, Fray 
Antonio de Villacastin, seeing Ulrich slip from his 
horse, hastened to receive the tottering soldier’s tidings, 
and led him to the church. 

The confiteor had just commenced, but Fray An- 
tonio motioned to the priests, who interrupted the Mass, 
and Ulrich, holding the prophet’s standard high aloft, 
exclaimed: “An unparalleled victory !— - Don Juan. . . 
October 7th. . . ! at Lepanto — the Ottoman navy totally 
destroyed. . . . ! ” 

Philip heard this great news and saw the standard, 
but seemed to have neither eyes nor ears ; not a muscle 
in his face stirred, no movement betrayed that anything 
was passing in his mind. Murmuring in a sarcastic, 
rather than a joyous tone: “Don Juan has dared 
much,” he gave a sign, without opening the letter, to 
continue the Mass, remaining on his knees as if nothing 
had disturbed the sacred rite. 

The exhausted messenger sank into a pew and did 


ONLY" A WORD. 


2 5 


not wake from his stupor, until the communion was over 
and the king had ordered a Te Deum for the victory of 
Lepanto. 

Then he rose, and as he came out of the pew a 
newly-married couple passed him, the architect, Her- 
rera, and Isabella Coello, radiant in beauty. 

Ulrich clenched his fist, and the thought passed 
through his mind, that he would cast away good-fortune, 
art and fame as carelessly as soap-bubbles, if he could 
be in Herrera’s place. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

What fame is — Ulrich was to learn! 

He saw in Messina the hero of Lepanto revered as 
a god. Wherever the victor appeared, fair hands 
strewed flowers in his path, balconies and windows were 
decked with hangings, and exulting women and girls, 
joyous children and grave men enthusiastically shouted 
his name and flung laurel-wreaths and branches to him. 
Messages, congratulations and gifts arrived from all the 
inonarchs and great men of the world. 

When he saw the wonderful youth dash by, Ulrich 
marvelled that his steed did not put forth wings and 
soar away wijh him into the clouds. But he too, Na- 
varrete, had done his duty, and was to enjoy the sweet- 
ness of renown. When he appeared on Don Juan’s 
most refractory steed, among the last of the victor’s 
train, he felt that he was not overlooked, and often 
heard people tell each other of his deeds. 

17 


252 


A WORD, 


This made him raise his head, swelled his heart, 
urged him into new paths of fame. 

The commander-in-chief also longed to press for- 
ward, but found himself condemned to inactivity, while 
he saw the league dissolve, and the fruit of his victory 
wither. King Philip’s petty jealousy opposed his wishes, 
poisoned his hopes, and barred the realization of his 
dreams. 

Don Juan was satiated with fame. “Power” was 
the food for which he longed. The busy spider in the 
Escurial could not deprive him of the laurel, but his 
own “ word,” his highest ambition in life, his power , 
he would consent to share with no mortal man, not 
even his brother. 

“ Laurels are withering leaves, power is arable 
land,” said Don Juan to Escovedo. 

It befits an emperor’s son, thought Ulrich, to cher- 
ish such lofty wishes ; to men of lower rank fame can 
remain the guiding star on life’s pathway. 

The elite of the army was in the Netherlands; there 
he could find what he desired. 

Don Juan let him go, and when fame was the word, 
Ulrich had no cause to complain of its ill-will. 

He bore the standard of the proud “ Castilian ” regi- 
ment, and when strange troops met him as he entered 
a city, one man whispered to another: “ That is Navar- 
rete, who was in the van at every assault on Haarlem, 
who, when all fell back before Alkma^r, assailed the 
walls again, it was not his fault that they were forced to 
retreat ... he turned the scale with his men on Mook- 
Heath. . . have you heard the story ? How, when 
struck by two bullets, he wrapped the banner around 
him, and fell with, and on it, upon the grass.” 


ONLY A WORD. 


2 53 


And now, when with the rebellious army he had left 
the island of Schouwen behind him and was marching 
through Brabant, it was said : 

“Navarrete! It was he, who led the way for the 
Spaniards with the standard on his head, when they 
waded through the sea that stormy night, to surprise 
Zierikzee.” 

Whoever bore arms in the Netherlands knew his 
name; but the citizens also knew who he was, and 
clenched their fists when they spoke of him. 

On the battle-field, in the water, on the ice, in the 
breaches of their firm walls, in burning cities, in streets 
and alleys, in council-chambers and plundered homes, 
he had confronted them as a murderer and destroyer. 
Y et, though the word fame had long been embittered to 
him, the inhumanity which clung to his deeds had the 
least share in it. 

He was the servant of his monarch, nothing more. 
All who bore the name of Netherlander were to him 
rebels and heretics, condemned by God, sentenced by 
his king ; not worthy peasants, skilful, industrious citi- 
zens, noble men, who were risking property and life for 
religion and liberty. 

This impish crew disdained to pray to the merciful 
mother of God and the saints, these temple violaters 
had robbed the churches of their statues, driven the 
pious monks and nuns from their cloisters ! They called 
the Pope; the Anti-Christ, and in every conquered city 
he found satirical songs and jeering verses about his 
lord, the king, his generals and all Spaniards. 

He had kept the faith of his childhood, which was 
shared by every one who bore arms with him, and had 
17 


2 54 


A WORD, 


easily obtained absolution, nay, encouragement and 
praise, for the most terrible deeds of blood. 

In battle, in slaughter, when his wounds burned, in 
plundering, at the gaming-table, everywhere he called 
upon the Holy Virgin, and also, but very rarely, on the 
“ word,” fame. 

He no longer believed in it, for it did not realize 
what he had anticipated. The laurel now rustled on 
his curls like withered leaves. Fame would not fill the 
void in his heart, failed to satisfy his discontented mind; 
power offered the lonely man no companionship of the 
soul, it could not even silence the voice which upbraided 
him — the unapproachable champion, him at whom no 
mortal dared to look askance — with being a miserable 
fool, defrauded of true happiness and the right ambition. 

This voice tortured him on the soft down beds in 
the town, on the straw in the camp, over his wine and 
on the march. 

Yet how many envied him. Ay! when he bore the 
standard at the head of the regiment he marched like a 
victorious demi-god! No one else could support so 
well as he the heavy pole, plated with gold, and the 
large embroidered silken banner, which might have 
served as a sail for a stately ship ; but he held the staff 
with his right hand, as if the burden intrusted to him 
was an easily-managed toy. Meantime, with inimitable 
solemnity, he threw back the upper portion of the body 
and his curly head, placing his left hand on his hip. 
The arch of the broad chest stood forth in fine relief, 
and with it the breast-plate and points of his armor. He 
seemed like a proud ship under swelling sails, and even 
in hostile cities, read admiration in the glances of the 
gaping crowd. Yet he was a miserable, discontented 


ONLY A WORD. 


255 


man, and could not help thinking more and more fre- 
quently of Don Juan’s “word.” 

He no longer trusted to the magic power of a word, 
as in former times. Still, he told himself that the 
“ arable field ” of the emperor’s son, “ power,” was some 
thing lofty and great — ay, the loftiest aim a man could 
hope to attain. 

Is not omnipotence God’s first attribute ? And 
now, on the march from Schouwen through Brabant, 
power beckoned to him. He had already tasted it, 
when the mutinous army to which he belonged at- 
tempted to pillage a smithy. He had stepped before the 
spoilers and saved the artisan’s life and property. 
Whoever swung the hammer before the bellows was 
sacred to him; he had formerly shared gains and 
booty with many a plundered member of his father’s 
craft. 

He now carried a captain’s staff, but this was mere 
mummery, child’s play, nothing more. A merry sol- 
dier’s-cook wore a captain’s plume on the side 
of his tall hat. The field-officer, most of the captains 
and the lieutenants, had retired after the great mutiny 
on the island of Schouwen was accomplished, and their 
places were now occupied by ensigns, sergeants and 
quartermasters. The higher officers had gone to Brus- 
sels, and the mutinous army marched without any chief 
through Brabant. 

They had not received their well-earned pay for 
twenty-two months, and the starving regiments now 
sought means of support wherever they could find 
them. 

Two years since, after the battle of Mook-Heath, the 
army had helped itself, and at that time, as often hap- 


256 


A WORD, 


pened on similar occasions, an Eletto* had been chosen 
from among the rebellious subaltern officers. Ulrich 
had then been lying seriously wounded, but after the 
end of the mutiny was told by many, that no other 
would have been made Eletto had he only been well 
and present. Now an Eletto was again to be chosen, 
and whoever was elected would have command of at 
least three thousand men, and possibly more, as it was 
expected that other regiments would join the insurrec- 
tion. To command an army! This was power, this 
was the highest attainment; it was worth risking life to 
obtain it. 

The regiments pitched their camp at Herenthals, 
and here the election was to be held. 

In the arrangement of the tents, the distribution 
of the wagons which surrounded the camp like a 
wall, the stationing of field-pieces at the least protected 
places, Ulrich had the most authority, and while 
exercising it forced himself, for the first time in his 
life, to appear gentle and yielding, when he would far 
rather have uttered words of command. He lived in a 
state of feverish excitement ; sleep deserted his couch, he 
imagined that every word he heard referred to himself 
and his election. 

During these days he learned to smile when he was 
angry, to speak pleasantly while curses were burning on 
his lips. He was careful not to betray by look, word, 
or deed what was passing in his mind, as he feared the 
ridicule that would ensue should he fail to achieve his 
purpose. 

One more day, one more night, and perhaps he 

* The chosen one. The Italian form is used, instead of the 
Spanish elec to. 


ONLY A WORD. 


257 


would be commander-in-chief, able to conquer a king- 
dom and keep the world in terror. Perhaps, only per- 
haps ; for another was seeking with dangerous means to 
obtain control of the army. 

This was Sergeant-Major and Quartermaster Zor- 
rillo, an excellent and popular soldier, who had been 
chosen Eletto after the battle of Mook-Heath, but vol- 
untarily resigned his .office at the first serious opposition 
he encountered. 

It was sRid that he had done this by his wife’s 
counsel, and this woman was Ulrich’s most dangerous 
foe. 

Zorrillo belonged to another regiment, but Ulrich 
had long known him and his companion, the “ camp- 
sibyl.” 

Wine was sold in the quartermaster’s tent, which, 
before the outbreak of the mutiny, had been the rendez- 
vous of the officers and chaplains. 

The sibyl entertained the officers with her gay con- 
versation, while they drank or sat at the gaming-table ; 
she probably owed her name to the skill she displayed 
in telling fortunes by cards. The common soldiers 
liked her too, because she took care of their sick wives 
and children. 

Navarrete preferred to spend his time in his own 
regiment, so he did not meet the Zorrillos often until the 
mutiny at Schouwen and on the march through Bra- 
bant. He had never sought, and now avoided them ; 
for he knew the sibyl was leaving no means untried to 
secure her partner’s election. Therefore he disliked 
them ; yet he could not help occasionally entering their 
tent, for the leaders of the mutiny held their counsels 
there. Zorrillo always received him courteously ; but 


A WORD, 


258 

his companion gazed at him so intently and searchingly, 
that an anxious feeling, very unusual to the bold fellow, 
stole over him. 

He could not help asking himself whether he had 
seen her before, and when the thought that she perhaps 
resembled his mother, once entered his mind, he an- 
grily rejected it. 

The day before she had offered to tell his fortune ; 
but he refused point-blank, for surely no good tidings 
could come to him from those lips. 

To-day she had asked what his Christian name was, 
and for the first time in years he remembered that he 
was also called “ Ulrich.” Now he was nothing but 
“ Navarrete,” to himself and others. He lived solely for 
himself, and the more reserved a man is, the more easily 
his Christian name is lost to him. 

As, years before, he had told the master that he was 
called nothing but Ulrich, he now gave the harsh an- 
swer : “ I am Navarrete, that’s enough !” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Towards evening, the members of the mutiny met 
at the Zorrillos to hold a council. 

The weather outside was hot and sultry, and the more 
people assembled, the heavier and more oppressive be- 
came the air within the spacious tent, the interior of which 
looked plain enough, for its whole furniture consisted of 
some small roughly-made tables, some benches and 
chairs, and one large table, and a superb ebony chest 
with ivory ornaments, evidently stolen property. On 
this work of art lay the pillows used at night, booty ob- 


ONLY A WORD. 


2 59 


tained at Haarlem ; they were covered with bright but 
worn-out silk, which had long shown the need of the 
thrifty touch of a woman’s hand. Pictures of the saints 
were pasted on the walls, and a crucifix hung over the 
door. 

Behind the great table, between a basket and the 
wine cask, from which the sibyl replenished the 
mugs, stood a high-backed chair. A coarse bar- 
maid, who had grown up in the camp, served the 
assembled men, but she had no occasion to hurry, for 
the Spaniards were slow drinkers. 

The guests sat, closely crowded together, in a circle, 
and seemed grave and taciturn ; but their words sounded 
passionate, imperious, defiant, and the speakers often 
struck their coats of mail with their clenched fists, or 
pounded on the floor with their swords. 

If there was any difference of opinion, the disputants 
flew into a furious rage, and then a chorus of fierce, 
blustering voices rose like a tenfold echo. It often 
seemed as if the next instant swords must fly from their 
sheaths and a bloody brawl begin ; but Zorrillo, who 
had been chosen to preside over the meeting, only 
needed to raise his baton and command order, to trans- 
form the roar into a low muttering; the weather-beaten, 
scarred, pitiless soldiers, even when mutineers, yielded 
willing obedience to the word of command and the 
iron constraint of discipline. 

On the sea and at Schouwen their splendid costumes 
had obtained a beggarly appearance. The velvet and 
brocade extorted from the rich citizens of Antwerp, now 
hung tattered and faded around their sinewy limbs. 
They looked like foot-pads, vagabonds, pirates, yet sat, 
as military custom required, exactly in the order of their 


26 o 


A WORD, 


rank; on the march and in the camp, every insurgent 
willingly obeyed the orders of the new leader, who by the 
fortune of war had thrown pairs-royal on the drumhead. 

One thing was certain : some decisive action must 
be taken. Every one needed doublets and shoes, money 
and good lodgings. But in what way could these 
be most easily procured ? By parleying and submitting 
on acceptable conditions, said some; by remaining 
free and capturing a city, roared others ; first wealthy 
Mechlin, which could be speedily reached. There they 
could get what they wanted without money. 

Zorrillo counselled prudent conduct; Navarrete 
impetuously advised bold action. They, the insurgents, 
he cried, were stronger than any other military force in 
the Netherlands, and need fear no one. If they begged 
and entreated they would be dismissed with copper 
coins ; but if they enforced their demands they would 
become rich and prosperous. 

With flashing eyes he extolled what the troops, and 
he himself had done ; he enlarged upon the hardships 
they had borne, the victories won for the king. He 
asked nothing but good pay for blood and toil, good pay, 
not coppers and worthless promises. 

Loud shouts of approval followed his speech, and a 
gunner, who now held the rank of captain, exclaimed 
enthusiastically : 

“ Navarrete, the hero of Lepanto and Haarlem, 
is right ! I know whom I will choose.” 

“Victor, victor Navarrete!” echoed from many 
a bearded lip. 

But Zorrillo interrupted these declarations, exclaiming, 
not without dignity, while raising his baton still higher . 

“ The election will take place to-morrow, gentlemen ; 


ONLY A WORD. 


261 


we are holding a council to-day. It is very warm in 
here ; I feel it as much as you do. But before we sep- 
arate, listen a few minutes to a man, who means well.” 

Zorrillo now explained all the reasons, which induced 
him to counsel negotiations and a friendly agreement 
with the commander-in-chief. There was sound, states- 
manlike logic in his words, yet his language did not lack 
warmth and charm. The men perceived that he 
was in earnest, and while he spoke the sibyl went behind 
him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and wiped the per- 
spiration from his brow with her handkerchief. Zorrillo 
permitted it, and without interrupting himself, gave her 
a grateful, affectionate glance. 

The bronzed warriors liked to look at her, and even 
permitted her to utter a word of advice or warning 
during their discussions, for she was a wise woman, not 
one of the ordinary stamp. Her blue eyes sparkled 
with intelligence and mirth, her full lips seemed formed 
for quick, gay repartee, she was always kind and cheer- 
ful in her manner even to the most insignificant. But 
whence came the deep lines about her red mouth and 
the outer corners of her eyes? She covered them with 
rouge every day, to conceal the evidence of the sor- 
rowful hours she spent when alone ? The lines were well 
disguised, yet they increased, and year by year grew 
deeper. 

No wrinkle had yet dared to appear on the narrow 
forehead; and the delicate features, dazzlingly-white 
teeth, girlish figure, and winning smile lent this woman 
a youthful aspect. She might be thirty, or perhaps even 
past forty. 

A pleasure made her younger by ten summers, a 
vexation transformed her into a matron. The snow- 


262 


A WORIX. 


white hair, carefully arranged on her forehead, seemed 
to indicate somewhat advanced age ; but it was known 
that it had turned grey in a few days and nights, eight 
years before, when a discontented blackguard stabbed the 
quartermaster, and he lay for weeks at the point of death. 

This white hair harmonized admirably with the red 
cheeks of the camp-sibyl, who appreciating the fact, did 
not dye it. 

During Zorrillo’s speech her eyes more than once 
rested on Ulrich with a strangely intense expression. 
As soon as he paused, she went back again behind the 
table to the crying child, to cradle it in her arms. 

Zorrillo — perceiving that a new and violent argu- 
ment was about to break forth among the men — closed 
the meeting. Before adjourning, however, it was 
unanimously decided that the election should be held 
on the morrow. 

While the soldiers noisily rose, some shaking hands 
with Zorrillo, some with Navarrete, the stately sergeant- 
major of a German lansquenet troop, which was sta- 
tioned in Antwerp, and did not belong to the insurgents, 
entered the wide open door of the tent. His dress was 
gay and in good order ; a fine Dalmatian dog fol- 
lowed him. 

A thunder-storm had begun, and it was raining 
violently. Some of the Spaniards were twisting their 
rosaries, and repeating prayers, but neither thunder, 
lightning, nor water seemed to have destroyed the Ger- 
man’s good temper, for he shook the drops from his 
plumed hat with a merry “ phew,” gaily introducing 
himself to his comrades as an envoy from the Pollviller 
regiment. 

His companions, he said, were not disinclined to 


ONLY A WORD. 263 

join the “ free army ” — he had come to ask how the 
masters of Schouvven fared. 

Zorrillo offered the sergeant-major a chair, and after 
the latter had raised and emptied two beakers from the 
barmaid’s pewter waiter in quick succession, he glanced 
around the circle of his rebel comrades. Some he had 
met before in various countries, and shook hands with 
them. Then he fixed his eyes on Ulrich, pondering 
where and under what standard he had seen this magnifi- 
cent, fair-haired warrior. 

Navarrete recognizing the merry lansquenet, Hans 
Eitelfritz of Colin on the Spree, held out his hand, 
and cried in the Spanish language, which the lansquenet 
had also used : 

“You are Hans Eitelfritz! Do you remember 
Christmas in the Black Forest, Master Moor, and the 
Alcazar in Madrid ?” 

“ Ulrich, young Master Ulrich ! Heavens and 
earth !” cried Eitelfritz • — but suddenly interrupted him- 
self ; for the sibyl, who had risen from the table to 
bring the envoy, with her own hands, a larger goblet of 
wine, dropped the beaker close beside him. 

Zorrillo and he hastily sprung to support the totter- 
ing woman, who was almost fainting. But she recov- 
ered herself, waving them back with a mute gesture. 

All eyes were fixed upon her, and every one was 
startled; for she stood as if benumbed, her bright, 
youthful face had suddenly become aged and haggard. 

“ What is the matter asked Zorrillo anxiously. 

Recovering her self-control, she answered hastily : 

“ The thunder, the storm. . . .” 

Then, with short, light steps, she went back to the 


264 


A WORD, 


table, and as she resumed her seat the bell for evening 
prayers was heard outside. 

Most of the company rose to obey the summons. 

“ Good-bye till to-morrow morning, Sergeant ! The 
election will take place early to-morrow.” 

‘ A Dios , d Dios , hasta mas ver, Sibila, a Dios /” 
was loudly shouted, and soon most of the guests had 
left the tent. 

Those who remained behind were scattered among 
the different tables. Ulrich sat at one alone with Hans 
Eitelfritz. 

The lansquenet had declined Zorrillo’s invitation to 
join him; an old friend from Madrid was present, with 
whom he wished to talk over happier days. The other 
willingly assented ; for what he had intended to say to 
his companions was against Ulrich and his views. The 
longer the sergeant-major detained him the better. 

Everything that recalled Master Moor was dear to 
Ulrich, and as soon as he was alone with Hans Eitel- 
fritz, he again greeted him in a strange mixture of 
Spanish and German. He had forgotten his home, but 
still retained a partial recollection of his native language. 
Every one supposed him to be a Spaniard, and he him- 
self felt as if he were one. 

Hans Eitelfritz had much to tell Ulrich ; he had 
often met Moor in Antwerp, and been kindly received 
in his studio. 

What pleasure it afforded Navarrete to hear from 
the noble artist, how he enjoyed being able to speak 
German again after so many years, difficult as it was. 
It seemed as if a crust melted away from his heart, and 
none of those present had ever seen him so gay, so full 
of youthful vivacity. Only one person knew that he 


ONT.V A WORD. 


265 


could laugh and play noisily, and this one was the 
beautiful woman at the long table, who knew not 
whether she should die of joy, or sink into the earth 
with shame. 

She had taken the year old infant from the basket. 
It was a pale, puny little creature, whose father had 
fallen in battle, and whose mother had deserted it. 

The handsome standard-bearer yonder was called 
Ulrich ! He must be her son ! Alas, and she could 
only cast stolen glances at him, listen by stealth to the 
German words that fell from the beloved lips. Nothing 
escaped her notice, yet while looking and listening, her 
thoughts wandered to a far distant country, long van- 
ished days ; beside the bearded giant she saw a beauti- 
ful, curly-haired child; besides the man’s deep voice 
she heard clear, sweet childish tones, that called her 
“ mother” and rang out in joyous, silvery laughter. 

The pale child in her arms often raised its little 
hand to its cheek, which was wet with the tears of 
the woman, who tended it. How hard, how unspeak- 
ably, terribly hard it was for this woman, with the 
youthful face and white locks, to remain quiet ! How 
she longed to start up and call joyously to the child, 
the man, her lover’s . enemy, but her own, own Ulrich : 
“ Look at me, look at me! Iam your mother. You 
are mine! Come, come to my heart! I will never 
leave you more !” 

Ulrich now laughed heartily again, not suspecting 
what was passing in a mother’s heart, close beside him ; 
he had no eyes for her, and only listened to the jests of 
the German lansquenet, with whom he drained beaker 
after beaker. 

The strange child served as a shield to protect the 


266 


A WORD, 


camp-sibyl from her son’s eyes, and also to conceal from 
him that she was watching, listening, weeping. 

Eitelfritz talked most and made one joke after an- 
other ; but she did not laugh, and only wished he would 
stop and let Ulrich speak, that she might be permitted 
to hear his voice again. 

“ Give the dog Lelaps a little comer of the settle,” 
cried Hans Eitelfritz. “ He’ll get his feet wet on the 
damp floor — for the rain is trickling in — and take 
cold. This choice fellow isn’t like ordinary dogs.” 

“ Do you call the tiger Lelaps?” asked Ulrich. “An 
odd name.” 

“ I got him from a student at Tubingen, dainty 
Junker Fritz of Hallberg, in exchange for an elephant’s 
tusk I obtained in the Levant, and he owes his name to 
the merry rogue. I tell you, he’s wiser than many 
learned men; he ought to be called Doctor Lelaps.” 

“ He’s a pretty creature.” 

“ Pretty! More, far more! For instance, at Naples 
we had the famous Mortadella sausage for breakfast, 
and being engaged in eager conversation, I forgot him. 
What did my Lelaps do ? He slipped quietly into the 
garden, returned with a bunch of forget-me-nots in his 
mouth, and offered it to me, as a gallant presents a bou- 
quet to his fair one. That meant : dogs liked sausage 
too, and it was not seemly to forget him. What do you 
say to that show of sense ?” 

“ I think your imagination more remarkable than 
the dog’s sagacity.” 

“ You believed in my good fortune in the old days, 
do you now doubt this true story ?” 

“ To be sure, that is rather preposterous, for whoever 
loyally and faithfully trusts good-fortune — your good 


ONLY A WORD. 267 

fortune — is ill-advised. Have you composed any new 
songs ?” 

“ That is all over now !” sighed the trooper. “ See 
this scar ! Since an infidel dog cleft my skull before 
Tunis, I can write no more verses ; yet it hasn’t grown 
quiet in my upper story on that account. I lie now, 
instead of composing. My boon companions enjoy the 
nonsensical trash, when I pour it forth at the tavern.” 

“ And the broken skull : is that a forget-me-not 
story too, or was it. . . .” 

“ Look here ! It’s the actual truth. It was a bad 
blow, but there’s a grain of good in everything evil. 
For instance, we were in the African desert just dying 
of thirst, for that belongs to the desert as much as the dot 
does to the letter i. Lelaps yonder was with me, and 
scented a spring. Then it was necessary to dig, but I 
had neither spade nor hatchet, so I took out the loose 
part of the skull, it was a hard piece of bone, and dug 
with it till the water gushed out of the sand, then I 
drank out of my brain-pan as if it were a goblet.” 

“ Man, man!” exclaimed Ulrich, striking his clenched 
fist on the table. 

“ Do you suppose a dog can’t scent a spring ?” 
asked Eitelfritz, with comical wrath. “ Lelaps here was 
born in Africa, the native land of tigers, and his 
mother. ...” 

“ I thought you got him in Tubingen ?” 

“ I said just now that I tell lies. I imposed upon 
you, when I made you think Lelaps came from Swabia ; 
he was really born in the desert, where the tigers live. 
No offence, Herr Ulrich ! We’ll keep our jests for an- 
other evening. As soon as I’m knocked down, I stop 
my nonsense. Now tell me, where shall I find Nav« 
18 


2 68 


A WOkD, 


arrete, the standard-bearer, the hero of Lepanto and 
Schouwen ? He must be a bold fellow ; they say 
Zorrillo and he. . . 

The lansquenet had spoken loudly; the quarter- 
master, who caught the name Navarrete, turned, and 
his eyes met Ulrich’s. 

He must be on his guard against this man. 

The instant Zorrillo recognized him as a German, he 
would hold a powerful weapon. The Spaniards would 
give the command only to a Spaniard. 

This thought now occurred to him for the first time. 
It had needed the meeting with Hans Eitelfritz, to re- 
mind him that he belonged to a different nation from 
his comrades. Here was a danger to be encountered, 
so with the rapid decision, acquired in the school of 
war, he laid his hand heavily on his countryman’s, say- 
ing in a low, impressive tone: “You are my friend, 
Hans Eitelfritz, and have no wish to injure me.” 

“ Zounds, no ! What’s up ?” 

“ Well then, keep to yourself where and how we first 
met each other. Don’t interrupt me. I’ll tell you later 
in my tent, where you must take up your quarters, how 
I gained my name, and what I have experienced in life. 
Don’t show your surprise, and keep calm. I, Ulrich, 
the boy from the Black Forest, am the man you seek, I 
am Navarrete.” 

r You?” asked the lansquenet, opening his eyes in 
amazement. “Nonsense! You’re paying me off for 
the yarns I told you just now.” 

No, Hans Eitelfritz, no ! I am not jesting, I mean it. 
Iam Navarrete! Naymore! If you keep your mouth shut, 
and the devil doesn’t put his finger into the pie, I think, 
spite of all the Zorrillos, I shall be Eletto to-matrow 


ONLY A WORD. 


269 


You know the Spanish temper! The German Ulrich 
will be a very different person to them from the Cas- 
tilian Navarrete. It is in your power to spoil my 
chance.” 

The other interrupted him by a peal of loud, joyous 
laughter, then shouted to the dog : “ Up, Lelaps ! My 
respects to Caballero Navarrete.” 

The Spaniards frowned, for they thought the German 
was drunk, but Hans Eitelfritz needed more liquor 
than that to upset his sobriety. 

Flashing a mischievous glance at Ulrich from his 
bright eyes, he whispered : “ If necessary, I too can be 
silent. You man without a country ! You soldier of 
fortune ! A Swabian the commander of these stiff- 
necked braggarts. Now see how I’ll help you.” 

“ What do you mean to do ? ” asked Ulrich ; but 
Hans Eitelfritz had already raised the huge goblet, 
banging it down again so violently that the table shook. 
Then he struck the top with his clenched fist, and when 
the Spaniards fixed their eyes on him, shouted in their 
language : “ Yes, indeed, it was delightful in those days, 
Caballero Navarrete. Your uncle, the noble Conde in 
what’s its name, that place in Castile, you know, and 
the Condesa and Condesilla. Splendid people! Do 
you remember the coal-black horses with snow-white 
tails in your father’s stable, and the old servant Enrique. 
There wasn’t a longer nose than his in all Castile ! 
Once, when I was in Burgos, I saw a queer, longish 
shadow coming round a street corner, and two minutes 
after, first a nose and, then old Enrique appeared. ” 

“Yes, yes,” replied Ulrich, guessing the lansque- 
net’s purpose. “ But it has grown late while we’ve been 
gossiping ; let us go ! ” 

18 


270 


A WORD, 


The woman at the table had not heard the whispers 
exchanged between the two men ; but she guessed the 
object of the lansquenet’s loud words. As the latter 
slowly rose, she laid the child in the basket, drew a 
long breath, pressed her fingers tightly upon her eyes 
for a short time, and then went directly up to her son. 


Florette did not know herself, whether she owed 
the name of sibyl to her skill in telling fortunes by cards, 
or to her wise counsel. Twelve years before, while still 
sharing the tent of the Walloon captain Grandgagnage, 
it had been given her, she could not say how or by 
whom. The fortune-telling she had learned from a sea- 
captain’s widow, with whom she had lodged a long 
time. 

When her voice grew sharp and weaker, in order to 
retain consideration and make herself important, she 
devoted herself to predicting the future; her versatile 
mind, her ambition, and the knowledge of human- 
nature gained in the camp and during her wanderings 
from land to land, aided her to acquire remarkable skill 
in this strange pursuit. 

Officers of the highest rank had sat opposite to her 
cards, listening to her oracular sayings, and Zorrillo, the 
man who had now been her lover for ten years, owed it 
to her influence, that he did not lose his position as 
quartermaster after the last mutiny. 

Hans Eitelfritz had heard of her skill and when, as 
he was leaving, she approached and offered to question 
the cards for him, he would not allow Ulrich to prevent 
him from casting a glance into the future. 

On the whole, what was predicted to him sounded 


ONLY A WORD 


2 7 I 


favorable, but the prophetess did not keep entirely to the 
point, for in turning the cards she found much to say to 
Ulrich, and once, pointing to the red and green knaves, 
remarked thoughtfully: “That is you, Navarrete; that 
is this gentleman. You must have met each other on 
some Christmas day, and not here, but in Germany ; if 
I see rightly, in Swabia.” 

She had just overheard all this. 

But a shudder ran through Ulrich’s frame when he 
heard it, and this woman, whose questioning glance had 
always disturbed him, now inspired him with a myste- 
rious dread, which he could not control. He rose to 
withdraw; but she detained him, saying: “ Now it is 
your turn, Captain.” 

“ Some other time,” replied Ulrich, repellently. 
“ Good fortune always comes in good time, and to 
know ill-luck in advance, is a misfortune I should think.” 

“ I can read the past, too.” 

Ulrich started. He must learn what his rival’s com- 
panion knew of his former life, so he answered quickly : 
“ Well, for aught I care, begin.” 

“ Gladly, gladly, but when I look into the past, I 
must be alone with the questioner. Be kind enough to 
give Zorrillo your company for quarter of an hour, Ser- 
geant.” 

“ Don’t believe everything she tells you, and don’t 
look too deep into her eyes. Come, Lelaps, my 
son !” cried the lansquenet, and did as he was re- 
quested. 

The woman dealt the cards silently, with trembling 
hands, but Ulrich thought: “ Now she will try to sound 
me, and a thousand to one will do everything in her 
power to disgust me with desiring the Eletto’s batoa 


272 


A WORD, 


That’s the way blockheads are caught. We will keep to 
the past.” 

His companion met this resolution halfway ; for be- 
fore she had dealt the last two rows, she rested her chin 
on the cards in her hands and, trying to meet his glance, 
asked : 

“ How shall we begin ? Do you still remember your 
childhood ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Your father ? ” 

“ I have not seen him for a long time. Don’t the 
cards tell you, that he is dead ?” 

“Dead, dead: — of course he’s dead. You had a 
mother too ? ” 

“ Yes, yes,” he answered impatiently; for he was un- 
willing to talk with this woman about his mother. 

She shrank back a little, and said sadly : “ That 
sounds very harsh. Do you no longer like to think of 
your mother ? ” 

“ What is that to you ?” 

“ I must know.” 

“ No, what concerns my mother is I will — is too 

good for juggling.” 

“ Oh,” she said, looking at him with a glance from 
which he shrank. Then she silently laid down the last 
cards, and asked : “ Do you want to hear anything 
about a sweetheart ? ” 

“ I have none. But how you look at me ! Have 
you grown tired of Zorrillo ? I am ill-suited for a 
gallant.” 

She shuddered slightly. Her bright face had again 
grown old, so old and weary that he pitied her. But 
she soon regained her composure, and continued : 


ONLY A WORD. 


2 73 

“ What are you saying ? Ask the questions yourself 
now, if you please.” 

“ Where is my native place ? ” 

" A wooded, mountainous region in Germany.” 

“ Ah, ha ! and what do you know of my father ? ” 

“ You look like him, there is an astonishing resem- 
blance in the forehead and eyes ; his voice, too, was ex- 
actly like yours.” 

“ A chip of the old block.” 

“ Well, well. I see Adam before me. ...” 

“ Adam ?” asked Ulrich, and the blood left his 
cheeks. 

“ Yes, his name was Adam,” she continued more 
boldly, with increasing vivacity: “ there he stands. He 
wears a smith’s apron, a small leather cap rests on his 
fair hair. Auriculas and balsams stand in the bow-win- 
dow. A roan horse is being shod in the market-place 
below.” 

The soldier’s head swam, the happiest period of his 
childhood, which he had not recalled for a long time, 
again rose before his memory ; he saw his father stand 
before him, and the woman, the sibyl yonder, had the 
eyes and mouth, not of his mother, but of the Madonna 
he had destroyed with his maul-stick. Scarcely able to 
control himself, he grasped her hand, pressing it violently, 
and asked in German : 

“ What is my name ? And what did my mother 
call me ? ” 

She lowered her eyes as if in shame, and whispered 
softly in German *. “ Ulrich, Ulrich, my darling, my 

little boy, my lamb, Ulrich — my child ! Condemn me, 
desert me, curse me, but call me once more ‘my mother.’ ” 

" My mother,” he said gently, covering his face with 


274 


A WORD, 


his hands — but she started up, hurried back to the pale 
baby in the cradle, and pressing her face upon the little 
one’s breast, moaned and wept bitterly. 

Meantime, Zorrillo had not averted his eyes from 
Navarrete and his companion. What could have passed 
between the two, what ailed the man ? 

Rising slowly, he approached the basket before 
which the sibyl was kneeling, and asked anxiously : 
“ What was it, Flora ? ” 

She pressed her face closer to the weeping child, 
that he might not see her tears, and answered quickly : 
“ I predicted things, things ... go, I will tell you about 
it later.” 

He was satisfied with this answer, but she was now 
obliged to join the Spaniards, and Ulrich took leave of 
her with a silent salutation. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

The Spanish nature is contagious, thought Hans 
Eitelfritz, tossing on his couch in Ulrich’s tent. What 
a queer fellow the gay young lad has become ! Sighs 
are cheap with him, and every word costs a ducat. He 
is worthy all honor as a soldier. If they make him 
Eletto, it will be worth while to join the free army. 

Ulrich had briefly told the lansquenet, how he had 
obtained the name of Navarrete and how he had come 
from Madrid and Lepanto to the Netherlands. Then 
he went to rest, but he could not sleep. 

He had found hks mother again. He now possessed 
the best gift Ruth had asked him to beseech of the 


ONLY A WORD. 


275 


“ word.” The soldier’s sweetheart, the faithless wife, the 
companion of his rival, whom only yesterday he had 
avoided, the fortune-teller, the camp-sibyl, was the 
woman who had given him birth. He, who thought 
he had preserved his honor stainless, whose hand grasped 
the sword if another looked askance at him, was the 
child of one, at whom every respectable woman had the 
right to point her finger. All these thoughts darted 
through his brain ; but strangely enough, they melted 
like morning mists when the sun rises, before the feeling 
of joy that he had his mother again. 

Her image did not rise before his memory in Zor- 
rillo’s tent, but framed by balsams and wall-flowers. 
His vivid imagination made her twenty years younger, 
and how beautiful she still was, how winningly she could 
glance and smile. Every appreciative word, all the 
praises of the sibyl’s beauty, good sense and kindness, 
which he had heard in the camp, came back freshly to 
his mind, and he would fain have started up to throw 
himself on her bosom, call her his mother, hear her give 
him all the sweet, pet names, which sounded so tender 
from her lips, and feel the caress of her soft hands. 
How rich the solitary man felt, how surpassingly rich ! 
He had been entirely alone, deserted even by his 
mother! Now he was so no longer, and pleasant 
dreams blended with his ambitious plans, like golden 
threads in dark cloth. 

When power was once his, he would build her a 
beautiful, cosy nest with his share of the booty. She 
must leave Zorrillo, leave him to-morrow. The little 
nest should belong to her and him alone, entirely alone, 
.and when his soul longed for peace, love, and quiet, he 
would rest there with her, recall with her the days of 


2j6 


A WORD, 


his childhood, cherish and care for her, make her forget 
all her sins and sufferings, and enjoy to the full the hap- 
piness of having her again, calling a loving mother’s 
heart his own. 

At every breath he drew he felt freer and gayer. 
Suddenly there was a rustling at the tent-door. He 
seized his two-handed sword, but did not raise it, for a 
beloved voice he recognized, called softly : “ Ulrich, 
Ulrich, it is I !” 

He started up, hastily threw on his doublet, rushed 
towards her, clasped her in his arms, and let her stroke 
his curls, kiss his cheeks and eyes, as in the old happy 
days. Then he drew her into the tent, whispering: 
“ Softly, softly, the snorer yonder is the German.” 

She followed him, leaned against him, and raised his 
hand to her lips ; he felt them grow wet with tears. 

They had not yet said anything to each other, ex- 
cept how happy, how glad, how thankful they were to 
have each other again ; then a sentinel passed, and she 
started up, exclaiming anxiously ; “ So late, so late ; 
Zorrillo will be waiting !” 

“ Zorrillo !” cried Ulrich scornfully, “ you have been 
a long time with him. If they give me the power. . . 

“ They will choose you, child, they shall choose 
you,” she hastily interrupted. “ Oh, God ! oh, God ! 
perhaps this will bring you misfortune instead of bless- 
ing; but you desire it! Count Mannsfeld is coming to- 
morrow; Zorrillo knows it. He will bring a pardon for 
all ; promotions too, but no money yet.” 

“ Oh, ho !” cried Ulrich, “ that may decide the 
matter.” 

“ Perhaps so, you deserve to command them. You 
were born for some special purpose, and your card 


ONLY A WORD. 


277 


always turns up so strangely. Eletto ! It sounds proud 
and grand, but many have been ruined by it. . . .” 

“ Because power was too hard for them.” 

“ It must serve you. You are strong. A child of 
good fortune. Folly ! I will not fear. You have prob- 
ably fared well in life. Ah, my lamb, I have done little 
for you, but one thing I did unceasingly : I prayed for 
you, poor boy, morning and night; have you noticed, 
have you felt it ?” 

He drew her to his heart again, but she released 
herself from his embrace, saying : “ To-morrow, Ulrich; 
— Zorrillo . . 

“ Zorrillo, always Zorrillo,” he repeated, his blood 
boiling angrily. “You are mine and, if you love me, 
you will leave him.” 

“ I cannot, Ulrich, it will not do. He is kind, you 
will yet be friends.” 

“ We, we ? On the day of judgment, nay, not even 
then! Are you more firmly bound to yon smooth fel- 
low, than to my honest father ? There stands something 
in the darkness, it is good steel, and if needful will cut 
the tie asunder.” 

“ Ulrich, Ulrich !” wailed Flora, raising her hands 
beseechingly. “Not that, not that; it must not be. 
He is kind and sensible, and loves me fondly. Oh, 
Heaven ! Oh, Ulrich ! The mother has glided to her 
son at night, as if she were following forbidden paths. 
Oh, this is indeed a punishment. I know how heavily 
I have sinned, I deserve whatever may befall me ; but 
you, you must not make me more wretched, than I 
already am. Your father, he .... if he were still 
alive, for your sake I would crawl to him on my 


278 


A WORD, 


knees, and say: ‘Here I am, forgive me’ — but he is 
dead. Pasquale, Zorrillo lives; do not think me a vain, 
deluded woman ; Zorrillo cannot bear to have me leave 
him . . . 

“ And my father ? He bore it. But do you know 
how ? Shall I describe his life to you ?” 

“ No, no ! Oh, child, how you torture me ! I know 
how I sinned against your father, the thought does not 
cease to torture me, for he truly loved me, and I loved 
him, too, loved him tenderly. But I cannot keep quiet 
a long time, and cast down my eyes, like the women 
there, it is not in my blood; and Adam shut me up in a 
cage and for many years let me see nothing except him- 
self, and the cold, stupid city in the ravine by the forest. 
One day a fierce longing came upon me, I could not 
help going forth — forth into the wide world, no matter 
with whom or whither. The soldier only needed to 
hint and I fell. — I did not stay with him long, he was 
a windy braggart; but I was faithful to Captain Grand- 
gagnage and accompanied the wild fellow with the Wal- 
loons through every land, until he was shot. Then ten 
years ago, I joined Zorrillo ; he is my friend, he shares 
my feelings, I am necessary to his existence. Do not 
laugh, Ulrich ; I well know that youth lies behind me, 
that I am old, yet Pasquale loves me; since I have 
had him, I have been more content and, Holy Virgin! 
now — I love him in return. Oh, Heaven ! Oh, Heaven! 
Why is it so ? This heart, this miserable heart, still 
throbs as fast as it did twenty years ago.” 

“ You will not leave him ?” 

“No, no, I love him, and I know why. Every one 
calls him a brave man, yet they only half know him ; no 
one knows him wholly as I do. No one else is so good, 


ON^LY A WORD. 


279 


so generous. You must let me speak! Do you sup- 
pose I ever forgot you ? Never, never! — But you have 
always been to me the dear little boy ; I never thought 
of you as a man, and since I could not have you and 
longed so greatly for you, for a child, I opened my 
heart to the soldiers’ orphans, the little creature you saw 
in the tent is one of these poor things, I have often had 
two or three such babies at the same time. It would 
have been an abomination to Grandgagnage, but Zor- 
rillo rejoices in my love for children, and I have given 
what the Walloon bequeathed me and his own booty to 
the soldiers’ \vidows and the little naked babies in the 
camp. He was satisfied, for whatever I do pleases him. 
I will not, cannot leave hirn !” 

She paused, hiding her face in her hands, but Ulrich 
paced to and fro, violently agitated. At last he said 
firmly: “Yet you must part from him. He or I ! I 
will have nothing to do with the lover of my father’s 
wife. I am Adam’s son, and will be constant to him. 
Ah, mother, I have been deprived of you so long. You 
can tend strangers’ orphaned children, yet you make 
your own son an orphan. Will you do this? No, a 
thousand times, no, you cannot ! Do not weep so, you 
must not weep! Hear me, hear me! For my sake, 
leave this Spaniard! You will not repent it. I have 
just been dreaming of the nest I will build for you. 
There I will cherish and care for you, and you shall 
keep as many orphan children as you choose. Leave 
him, mother, you must leave him for the sake of your 
child, your Ulrich !” 

“ Oh, God ! oh, God ! ” she sobbed. “ I will try, 
yes, I will try. . . . My child, my dear child ! ” 

Ulrich clasped her closely in his arms, kissed her 


28 o 


A WORD, 


hair, and said, softly : “ I know, I know, you need love, 
and you shall find it with me.” 

“ With you ! ” she repeated, sobbing. Then releas- 
ing herself from his embrace she hurried to the feverish 
woman, at whose summons she had left her tent. 

As morning dawned, she returned home and found 
Zorrillo still awake. He enquired about her patient, 
and told her he had given the child something to drink 
while she was away. 

Flora could not help weeping bitterly again, and 
Zorrillo, noticing it, exclaimed chidingly : “ Each has 

his own griefs to bear, it is not wise to take strangers’ 
troubles so deeply to heart.” 

“ Strangers’ troubles,” she repeated, mournfully, and 
went to rest. 

White-haired woman, why have you remained so 
young ? All the cares and sorrows of youth and age 
are torturing you at the same time ! One love is fight- 
ing a mortal battle with another in your breast. Which 
will conquer ? 

She knows, she knew it ere she entered the tent. 
The mother fled from the child, but she cannot abandon 
her new-found son. Oh, maternal love, thou dost 
hover in radiant bliss far above the clouds, and amid 
choirs of angels ! Oh, maternal heart, thou dost bleed 
pierced with swords, more full of sorrows than any 
other ! 

Poor, poor Florette ! On this July morning she 
was enduring superhuman tortures, all the sins she had 
committed arrayed themselves against her, shrieking 
into her ear that she was a lost woman, and there could 
be no pardon for her either in this world or the next. 

Yet! — the clouds drift by, birds of passage migrate, 


ONLY A WORD. 


28l 


the musician wanders singing from land to land, finds 
love, and remorselessly strips off light fetters to seek 
others. His child imitates the father, who had followed 
the example of his, the same thing occurring back to 
their remotest ancestors! But eternal justice? Will 
it measure the fluttering leaf by the same standard as 
the firmly-rooted plant ? 

When Zorrillo saw Flora by the daylight, he said, 
kindly : “You have been weeping ? ” 

“ Yes,” she answered, fixing her eyes on the ground. 

He thought she was anxious, as on a former occa- 
sion, lest his election to the office of Eletto might prove 
his ruin, so he drew her towards him, exclaiming: 
“ Have no fear, Bonita. If they choose me, and Manns- 
feld comes, as he promised, the play will end this very 
day. I hope, even at the twelfth hour, they will listen 
to reason, and allow themselves to be guided into the 
right course. If they make the young madcap Eletto 
— his head will be at stake, not mine. Are you ill? 
How you look, child! Surely, surely you must be suf- 
fering ; you shall not go out at night to nurse sick peo- 
ple again ! ” 

The words came from an anxious heart, and sounded 
warm and gentle. They penetrated Florette’s inmost 
soul, and overwhelmed with passionate emotion she 
clasped his hands, kissed them, and exclaimed, softly : 
“ Thanks, thanks, Pasquale, for your love, for all. I 
will never, never forget it, whatever happens ! Go, go ; 
the drum is beating again.” 

Zorrillo fancied she was uttering mere feverish rav- 
ings, and begged her to calm herself ; then he left the 
tent, and went to the place where the election was 
to be held. 


282 


A WORD, 


As soon as Flora was alone, she threw herself on her 
knees before the Madonna’s picture, but knew not 
whether it would be right to pray that her son might 
obtain an office, which had proved the ruin of so many ; 
and when she besought the Virgin to give her strength 
to leave her lover, it seemed to her like treason to Pas- 
quale. 

Her thoughts grew confused, and she could not 
pray. Her mobile mind wandered swiftly from lofty to 
petty things; she seized the cards to see whether fate 
would unite her to Zorrillo or to Ulrich, and the red ten, 
which represented herself, lay close beside the green 
knave, Pasquale. She angrily threw them down, deter- 
mined, in spite of the oracle, to follow her son. 

Meantime in the camp drums beat, fifes screamed 
shrilly, trumpets blared, and the shouts and voices of 
the assembled soldiers sounded like the distant roar of 
the surf. 

A fresh burst of military music rang out, and now 
Florette started to her feet and listened. It seemed as 
if she heard Ulrich’s voice, and the rapid throbbing of 
her heart almost stopped her breath. She must go out, 
she must see and hear what was passing. Hastily 
pushing the white hair back from her brow, she threw a 
veil over it, and hurried through the camp to the spot 
where the election was taking place. 

The soldiers all knew her and made way for her. 

The leaders of the mutineers were standing on the 
wall of earth between the field-pieces, and amid the 
foremost rank, nay, in front of them all, her son was ad- 
dressing the crowd. 

The choice wavered between him and Zorrillo. 

Ulrich had already been speaking a long time. His 


ONLY A WORD. 


2 83 


cheeks were glowing and he looked so handsome, so 
noble, in his golden helmet, from beneath which floated 
his thick, fair locks, that her heart swelled with joy, and 
as the night grows brighter when the black clouds are 
torn asunder and the moon victoriously appears, grief 
and pain were suddenly irradiated by maternal love and 
pride. 

Now he drew his tall figure up still higher, exclaim- 
ing : “ Others are readier and bolder with the tongue 
than I, but I can speak with the sword as well as any 
one.” 

Then raising the heavy two-handed sword, which 
others laboriously managed with both hands, he 
swung it around his head, using only his right hand, 
in swift circles, until it fairly whistled through the 
air. 

The soldiers shouted exultingly as they beheld the 
feat, and when he had lowered the weapon and silence 
was restored, he continued, defiantly, while his breath 
came quick and short : “ And where do the talkers, the 
parleyers seek to lead us ? To cringe like dogs, who 
lick their masters’ feet, before the men who cheat us. 
Count Mannsfeld will come to-day; I know it, and I 
have also learned that he will bring everything except 
what is our due, what we need, what we intend to de- 
mand, what we require for our bare feet, our ragged 
bodies; money, money he has not to offer! This is so. 
I swear it; if not, stand forth, you parleyers, and give 
me the lie ! Have you inclination or courage to give 
the lie to Navarrete ? — You are silent! — But we will 
speak ! We will not suffer ourselves to be mocked and 
put off! What we demand is fair pay for good work. 
Whoever has patience, can wait. Mine is exhausted. 
19 


284 


A WORD, 


We are His Majesty’s obedient servants and wish to re- 
main so. As soon as he keeps his bargain, he can rely 
upon us ; but when he breaks it, we are bound to no 
one but ourselves, and Santiago ! we are not the weaker 
party. We need money, and if His Majesty lacks 
ducats, a city where we can find what we want. Money 
or a city, a city or money ! The demand is just, and 
if you elect me, I will stand by it, and not shrink if it 
rouses murmuring behind me or against me. Whoever 
has a brave heart under his armor, let him follow me; 
whoever wishes to creep after Zorrillo, can do so. Elect 
me, friends, and I will get you more than we need, with 
honor and fame to boot. Saint Jacob and the Madonna 
will aid us. Long live the king ! ” 

“Long live the king! Long live Navarrete! 
Navarrete! Hurrah for Navarrete!” echoed loudly, 
impetuously from a thousand bearded lips. 

Zorrillo had no opportunity to speak again. The 
election was made. 

Ulrich was chosen Eletto. 

As if on wings, he went from man to man, shaking 
hands with his comrades. Power, power, the highest 
prize on earth, was attained, was his! The whole 
throng, soldiers, tyros, women, girls and children, 
crowded around him, shouting his name ; whoever wore 
a hat or cap, tossed it in the air, whoever had a ker- 
chief, waved it. Drums beat, trumpets sounded, and the 
gunner ordered all the field-pieces to be discharged, 
for the choice pleased him. 

Ulrich stood, as if intoxicated, amid the shouts, 
shrieks of joy, military music, and thunder of the cannon. 
He raised his helmet, waved salutations to the crowd, 
and strove to speak, but the uproar drowned his words. 


ONLY A WORD. 


285 

After the election Florette slipped quietly away; first 
to the empty tent, then to the sick woman who needed 
her care. 

The Eletto had no time to think of his mother; for 
scarcely had he given a solemn oath of loyalty to his 
comrades and received theirs, when Count Mannsfeld 
appeared. 

The general was received with every honor. He 
knew Navarrete, and the latter entered into negotia- 
tions with the manly dignity natural to him ; but the 
count really had nothing but promises to offer, and the 
insurgents would not give up their demand : “ Money 
or a city !” 

The nobleman reminded them of their oath of al- 
legiance, made lavish use of kind words, threats and 
warnings, but the Eletto remained firm. Mannsfeld 
perceived that he had come in vain ; the only conces- 
sion he could obtain from Navarrete was, that some 
prudent man among the leaders should accompany 
him to Brussels, to explain the condition of the regi- 
ments to the council of state there, and receive fresh 
proposals. Then the count suggested that Zorrillo 
should be entrusted with the mission, and the Eletto or- 
dered the quartermaster to prepare for departure at 
once. An hour after the general left the camp with 
Flora’s lover in his train. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

The fifth night after the Eletto’s election was clos- 
ing in, a light rain was falling, and no sound was heard 
19 


286 


A WORD, 


in the deserted streets of the encampment except now and 
then the footsteps of a sentinel, or the cries of a child. 

In Zorrillo’s tent, which was usually brightly 
lighted until a late hour of the night, only one misera- 
ble brand was burning, beside which sat the sleepy 
bar-maid, darning a hole in he.r frieze -jacket. The girl 
did not expect any one, and started when the door of 
the tent was violently tom open, and her master, fol- 
lowed by two newly -appointed captains, came straight 
up to her. 

Zorrillo held his hat in his hand, his hair, slightly 
tinged with grey, hung in a tangled mass over his fore- 
head, but he carried himself as erect as ever. His body 
did not move, but his eyes wandered from one corner 
of the tent to another, and the girl crossed herself and 
held up two fingers towards him, for his dark glance 
fell upon her, as he at last exclaimed, in a hollow 
tone : 

“ Where is the mistress ?” 

“ Gone, I could not help it” replied the girl. 

“ Where ?” 

“To the Eletto, to Navarrete.” 

“ When ?” 

“He came and took her and the child, directly after 
you had left the camp.” 

“ And she has not returned ?” 

“ She has just sent a roast chicken, which I was to 
keep for you when you came home. There it is.” 

Zorrillo laughed. Then he turned to his com- 
panions, saying : 

“ I thank you. You have now. . Is she still with 
the Eletto ?” 

“ Why, of course.” 


ONLY A WORD. 


287 


“And who — who saw her the night before the 
election — let me sit down — who saw her with him 
then ?” 

“ My brother,” replied one of the captains. “ She 
was just coming out of the tent, as he passed with the 
guard.” 

“ Don’t take the matter to heart,” said the other. 
“ There are plenty of women ! We are growing old, 
and can no longer cope with a handsome fellow like 
Navarrete.” 

“ I thought the sibyl was more sensible,” added the 
younger captain. “ I saw her in Naples sixteen years 
ago. Zounds, she was a beautiful woman then ! A 
pretty creature even now; but Navarrete might almost 
be her son. And you always treated her kindly, 
Pasquale. Well, whoever expects gratitude from 
women. . . ” 

Suddenly the quartermaster remembered the hour 
just before the election, when Florette had thrown her- 
self upon his breast, and thanked him for his kindness ; 
clenching his teeth, he groaned aloud. 

The others were about to leave him, but he regained 
his self-control, and said : 

“ Take him the count’s letter, Renato. What I 
have to say to him , I will determine later.” 

Zorrillo was a long time unlacing his jerkin and 
taking out the paper. Both of his companions noticed 
how his fingers trembled, and looked at each other 
compassionately ; but the older one said, as he received 
the letter : 

“ Man, man, this will do no good. Women are like 
good fortune.” 

“ Take the thing as a thousand others have taken it. 


A WORD, 


*88 

and don’t come to blows. You wield a good blade, 
but to attack Navarrete is suicide. I’ll take him the 
letter. Be wise, Zorrillo, and look for another love at 
once.” 

“ Directly, directly, of course,” replied the quarter- 
master; but as soon as he had sent the maid-servant 
away, and was entirely alone, he bowed his forehead 
upon the table and his shoulders heaved convulsively. 
He remained in this attitude a long time, then paced to 
and fro with forced calmness. Morning dawned long 
ere he sought his couch. 

Early the next day he made his report to the Eletto 
before the assembled council of war, and when it broke 
up, approached Navarrete, saying, in so loud a tone 
that no one could fail to hear : 

“ I congratulate you on your new sweetheart.” 

“ With good reason,” replied the Eletto. “ Wait a 
little while, and I’ll wager that you’ll congratulate me 
more sincerely than you do to-day.” 

The offers from Brussels had again proved unac- 
ceptable. It was necessary now to act, and the insur- 
gent commander profited by the time at his disposal. 
It seemed as if “ power ” doubled his elasticity and 
energy. It was so delightful, after the march, the coun- 
cil of war, and the day’s work were over, to rest with 
his mother, listen to her, and open his own heart. 
How had she preserved — yes, he might call it so — 
her aristocratic bearing, amid the turmoil, perils, and 
mire of camp-life, in spite of all, all ! How cleverly and 
entertainingly she could talk about men and things, how 
comical the ideas, with which she understood how to 
spice the conversation, and how well versed he found 
her in everything that related to the situation of the 


ONLY A WORD. 289 

regiments and his own position. She had not been the 
confidante of army leaders in vain. 

By her advice he relinquished his plan of capturing 
Mechlin, after learning from spies that it was prepared 
and expecting the attack of the insurgents. 

He could not enter upon a long siege with the 
means at his command ; his first blow must not miss 
the mark. So he only showed himself near Brussels, 
sent Captain Montesdocca, who tried to parley again^ 
back with his mission unaccomplished, marched in a 
new direction to mislead his foes, aud then unexpectedly 
assailed wealthy Aalst in Flanders. 

The surprised inhabitants tried £0 defend their well 
fortified city, but the citizens’ strength could not with- 
stand the furious assault of the wed-drilled, booty-seek 
ing army. 

The conquered city belonged te d»e king. It was 
the pledge of what the rebels required, <md they indem- 
nified themselves in it for the pay that had been with- 
held. All who attempted to offer resistao^e fell by the 
sword, all the citizens’ possessions were seized by the 
soldiers, as the wages that belonged to them. 

In the shops under the Belfry, the great towe* 
from whence the bell summoned the inhabhaots whesv 
danger threatened, lay plenty of cloth for new doublets. 
Nor was there any lack of gold or silver in the treasury 
of the guild-hall, the strong boxes of the merchants, the 
chests of the citizens. The silver table-utensils, the goid 
ornaments of the women, the children’s gifts from god- 
parents fell into the hands of the conquerors, while a 
hundred and seventy rich villages near Aalst were 
compelled to furnish food for the mutineers. 

Navarrete did not forbid the plundering. Acc<**** 


290 


A WORD, 


ing to his opinion, what soldiers took by assault was 
well-earned booty. To him the occupation of Aalst 
was an act of righteous self-defence, and the regiments 
shared his belief, and were pleased with their Eletto. 

The rebels sought and found quarters in the citizens’ 
houses, slept in their beds, eat from their dishes, and 
drank their wine-cellars empty. Pillage was permitted 
for three days. On the fifth discipline was restored, the 
quartermaster’s department organized, and the citizens 
were permitted to assemble at the guild-hall, pursue 
their trades and business, follow the pursuits to which 
they had been accustomed. The property they had 
saved was declared unassailable; besides, robbery had 
ceased to be very remunerative. 

The Eletto was at liberty to choose his own quarters, 
and there was no lack of stately dwellings in Aalst. 
Ulrich might have been tempted to occupy the palace of 
Baron de Hierges, but passed it by, selecting as a home 
for his mother and himself a pretty little house on the 
market-place, which reminded him of his father’s smithy. 
The bow-windowed room, with the view of the belfry 
and the stately guildhall, was pleasantly fitted up for 
his mother, and the city gardeners received orders to 
send the finest house-plants to his residence. Soon the 
sitting-room, adorned with flowers and enlivened by 
singing-birds, looked far handsomer and more cosy than 
the nest of which he had dreamed- A little white dog, 
exactly like the one Florette had possessed in the smithy, 
was also procured, and when in the evening the warm 
summer air floated into the open windows, and Ulrich 
sat alone with Florette, recalling memories of the past, 
or making plans for the future, it seemed as if a new 
spring had come to his soul. The citizens’ distress did 


ONLY A WORD. 


29I 


not trouble him. They were the losing party in the 
grim game of war, enemies — rebels. Among his own 
men he saw nothing but joyous faces ; he exercised the 
power — they obeyed. 

Zorrillo bore him ill-will, Ulrich read it in his eyes ; 
but he made him a captain, and the man performed his 
duty as quartermaster in the most exemplary manner. 
Florette wished to tell him that the Eletto was her son, 
but the latter begged her to wait till his power was more 
firmly established, and how could she refuse her darling 
anything ? She had grieved deeply, very deeply, but 
this mood soon passed away, and now she could be 
happy in Ulrich’s society, and forget sorrow and heart- 
ache. 

What joy it was to have him back, to be loved by 
him ! Where was there a more affectionate son, a 
pleasanter home than hers ? The velvet and brocade 
dresses belonging the Baroness de Hierges had fallen 
to the Eletto. How young Florette looked in them ! 
When she glanced into the mirror, she was astonished 
at herself. 

Two beautiful riding-horses for ladies’ use and elegant 
trappings had been found in the baron’s stable. Ulrich 
had told her of it, and the desire to ride with him instantly 
arose in her mind. She had always accompanied Grand- 
gagnage, and when she now went out, attired in a long 
velvet riding-habit, with floating plumes in her dainty 
little hat, beside her son, she soon noticed how admi- 
ringly even the hostile citizens and their wives looked 
after them. It was a pretty sight to behold the hand- 
some soldier, full of pride and power, galloping on the 
most spirited stallion, beside the beautiful, white-haired 
woman, whose eyes sparkled with vivacious light. 


292 


A WORD, 


Zorrillo often met them, when they passed the guild- 
hall, and Florette always gave him a friendly greeting 
with her whip, but he intentionally averted his eyes or 
if he could not avoid it, coldly returned her recognition. 

This wounded her deeply, and when alone, it often 
happened that she sunk into gloomy reverie and, with 
an aged, weary face, gazed fixedly at the floor. But 
Ulrich’s approach quickly cheered and rejuvenated her. 

Florette now knew what her son had experienced in 
life, what had moved his heart, his soul, and could not 
contradict him, when he told her that power was the 
highest prize of existence. 

The Eletto’s ambitious mind could not be satisfied 
with little Aalst. The mutineers had been outlawed 
by an edict from Brussels, but the king had nothing 
to do with this measure; the shameful proclamation 
was only intended to stop the wailing of the Nether- 
landers. They would have to pay dearly for it ! There 
was a great scheme in view. 

The Antwerp of those days was called “ as rich as 
the Indies;” the project under consideration was the 
possibility of manoeuvring this abode of wealth into the 
hands of the mutineers ; the whole Spanish army in 
the Netherlands being about to follow the example of 
the regiments in Aalst. 

The mother was the friend and counsellor of the son. 
At every step he took he heard her opinion, and often 
yielded his own in its favor. This interest in the direc- 
tion of great events occupied the sibyl’s versatile mind. 
When, on many occasions, pros and cons were equal 
in weight, she brought out the cards, and this oracle 
generally turned the scale. 

No high aim, no desire to accomplish good and 


ONLY A WORD. 


293 


great things in wider spheres, influenced the thoughts 
and actions of this couple. 

What cared they, that the weal and woe of thous- 
ands depended on their decision ? The deadly weapon 
in their hands was to them only a valuable utensil in 
which they delighted, and with which fruits were plucked 
from the trees. 

Ulrich now saw the fulfilment of Don Juan’s words, 
that power was an arable field ; for there were many full 
ears in Aalst for them both to harvest. 

Florette still nursed, with maternal care, the soldier’s 
orphan which she had taken to her son’s house; the 
child, born on a bed of straw — was now clothed in 
dainty linen, laces and other beautiful finery. It was 
necessary to her, for she occupied herself with the help- 
less little creature when, during the long morning hours 
of Ulrich’s absence, sorrowful thought troubled her too 
deeply. 

Ulrich often remained absent a long time, far longer 
than the service required. What was he doing? Visit- 
ing a sweetheart ? Why not ? She only marvelled 
that the fair women did not come from far and near to 
see the handsome man. 

Yes, the Eletto had found an old love. Art, which 
he had sullenly forsaken. News had reached his ears, 
that an artist had fallen in the defence of the city. He 
went to the dead man’s house to see his works, and how 
did he find the painter’s dwelling ! Windows, furniture 
were shattered, the broken doors of the cupboards hung 
into the rooms on their bent hinges. The widow and 
her children were lying in the studio on a heap of straw. 

This touched his heart, and he gave alms with an 
open hand to the sorrowing woman. A few pictures <?f 


294 


A WORD, 


the saints, which the Spaniards had spared, hung on the 
walls ; the easel, paints and brushes had been left un- 
touched. 

A thought, which he instantly carried into execution, 
entered his mind. He would paint a new standard! 
How his heart beat, when he again stood before the 
easel ! 

He regarded the heretics as heathens. The Span- 
iards were shortly going to fight against them and for 
the faith. So be painted the Saviour on one side of 
the standard, the Virgin on the other. The artist’s 
widow sat to him for the Madonna, a young soldier for 
the Christ. 

No scruples, no consideration for the criticisms of 
teachers now checked his creating hand ; the power was 
his, and whatever he did must be right. 

He placed upon the Saviour’s bowed figure, Costa’s 
head, as he had painted it in Titian’s studio, and the 
Madonna, in defiance of the stern judges in Madrid, re- 
ceived the sibyl’s face, to please himself and do honor 
to his mother. He made her younger, transformed her 
white hair to gleaming golden tresses. One day he 
disked Flora to sit still and think of something very 
serious ; he wanted to sketch her. 

She gaily placed herself in position, saying : 

“ Be quick, for serious thoughts don’t last long with 
me.” 

A few days later both pictures were finished, and pos- 
sessed no mean degree of merit; he rejoiced that after 
the long interval he could still accomplish something. 
His mother was delighted with her son’s masterpieces, 
especially the Madonna, for she instantly recognized 
herself, and was touched by this proof of his faithful re- 


ONLY A WORD. 


295 


membrance. She had looked exactly like it when a 
young girl, she said ; it was strange how precisely he had 
hit the color of her hair ; but she was afraid it was blas- 
pheming to paint a Madonna with her face ; she was a 
poor sinner, nothing more. 

Florette was glad that the work was finished, for rest- 
lessness again began to torture her, and the mornings had 
been so lonely. Zorrillo — it caused her bitter pain — 
had not cast even a single glance at her, and she began 
to miss the society of men, to which she had been ac- 
customed. But she never complained, and always 
showed Ulrich the same cheerful face, until the latter 
told her one day that he must leave her for some time. 

He had already defeated in little skirmishes small 
bodies of peasants and citizens, who had taken the field 
against the mutineers ; now Colonel Romero called 
upon him to help oppose a large army of patriots, who 
had assembled between Lowen and Tirlemont, under 
the command of the noble Sieur de Floyon. It was 
said to consist of students and other rebellious brawlers, 
and so it proved ; but the “ rebels ” were the flower of 
the youth of the shamefully-oppressed nation, noble 
souls, who found it unbearable to see their native land 
enslaved by mutinous hordes. 

Ulrich’s parting with his mother was not a hard one. 
He felt sure of victory and of returning home, but the ex- 
citable woman burst into tears as she bade him farewell. 

The Eletto took the field with a large body of troops ; 
the majority of the mutineers, with them Captain and 
Quartermaster Zorrillo, remained behind to hold the 
citizens in check. 


A WORD, 


296 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

A considerable, but hastily-collected army of 
patriots had been utterly routed at Tisnacq by a small 
force of disciplined Spaniards. 

Ulrich had assisted his countrymen to gain the 
speedy victory, and had been greeted by his old colonel, 
the brave Romero, the bold cavalry-commander, 
Mendoza, and other distinguished officers as one of 
themselves. Since these aristocrats had become muti- 
neers, the Eletto was a brother, and they did not disdain 
to secure his cooperation in the attack they were plan- 
ning upon Antwerp. 

He had shown great courage under fire, and 
wherever he appeared, his countrymen held out their 
hands to him, vowing obedience and loyalty unto death. 

Ulrich felt as if he were walking on air, mere exist- 
ence was a joy to him. No prince could revel in the 
blissful consciousness of increasing power, more fully 
than he. The evening after the decision he had attended 
a splendid banquet with Romero, Vargas, Mendoza, 
Tassis, and the next morning the prisoners, who had 
fallen into the hands of his men, were brought before 
him. 

He had left the examination of the students, citizens* 
sons, and peasants to his lieutenant ; but there were also 
three noblemen, from whom large ransoms could be 
obtained. The two older ones had granted what he 
asked and been led away; the third, a tall man in 
knightly armor, was left last. 


ONLY a word. 


*97 


Ulrich had personally encountered the latter. The 
prisoner, mounted upon a tall steed, had pressed him 
very closely ; nay, the Eletto’s victory was not decided, 
until a musket-shot had stretched the other’s horse on the 
ground. 

The knight now carried his arm in a sling. In the 
centre of his coat of mail and on the shoulder-pieces of 
his armor, the ensigns armorial of a noble family were 
embossed. 

“You were dragged out from under your horse,” 
said the Eletto to the knight. “ You wield an excellent 
blade.” 

He had spoken in Spanish, but the other shrugged 
his shoulders, and answered in the German language : 
“ I don’t understand Spanish.” 

“ Are you a German ?” Ulrich now asked in his 
native tongue. “ How do you happen to be among the 
Netherland rebels ?” 

The nobleman looked at the Eletto in surprise. But 
the latter, giving him no time for reflection, continued : 
“ I understand German ; your answer ?” 

“ I had business in Antwerp ?” 

“ What business ?” 

“ That is my affair.” 

“ Very well. Then we will drop courtesy and adopt 
a different tone.” 

“ Nay, I am the vanquished party, and will answer 
you.” 

“ Well then ?” 

“ I had stuffs to buy.” 

“ Are you a merchant ?” 

The knight shook his head and answered, smiling : 
“We have rebuilt our castle since the fire.” 


298 


A WORD, 


“ And now you need hangings and artistic stuffs. 
Did you expect to capture them from us ?” 

“ Scarcely, sir.” 

“ Then what brought you among our enemies ?” 

“ Baron Floyon belongs to my mother’s family. He 
marched against you, and as I approved his cause. . . .” 

“ And pillage pleases you, you felt disposed to break 
a lance.” 

“ Quite right.” 

“ And you have done your cause no harm. Where 
do you live ? ” 

“ Surely you know : in Germany.” 

“ Germany is a very large country.” 

“ In the Black Forest in Swabia.” 

“ And your name ? ” 

The prisoner made no reply ; but Ulrich fixed his 
eyes upon the coat of arms on the knight’s armor, looked 
at him more steadily, and a strange smile hovered 
around his lips as he approached him, saying in an 
altered tone: “You think the Navarrete will demand 
from Count von Frohlinger a ransom as large as his 
fields and forests ?” 

“ You know me ? ” 

“ Perhaps so, Count Lips.” 

“ By Heavens ! ” 

“ Ah, ha, you went from the monastery to the 
field.” 

“ From the monastery ? How do you know that, sir ?” 

“ We are old acquaintances, Count Lips. Look me 
in the eyes.” 

The other gazed keenly at . the Eletto, shook his 
head, and said : “You have not seemed a total stranger 
to me from the first ; but I never was in Spain.” 


ONLY A WORD. 


299 


“ But I have been in Swabia, and at that time you 
did me a kindness. Would your ransom be large enough 
to cover the cost of a broken church window ? ” 

The count opened his eyes in amazement and a 
bright smile flashed over his face as, clapping his hands, 
he exclaimed with sincere delight : 

“ You, you — you are Ulrich ! I'll be damned, if I’m 
mistaken ! But who the devil would discover a child 
of the Black Forest in the Spanish Eletto ? ” 

“ That I am one, must remain a secret between us 
for the present,” exclaimed Ulrich, extending his hand 
to the count. “ Keep silence, and you will be free — the 
window will cover the ransom ! ” 

“ Holy Virgin ! If all the windows in the monas- 
tery were as dear, the monks might grow fat ! ” cried 
the count. “ A Swabian heart remains half Swabian, 
even when it beats under a Spanish doublet. Its luck, 
Turk’s luck, that I followed Floyon ; — and your old 
father, Adam ? And Ruth — what a pleasure !” 

“ You ought to know . . . my father is dead, died 
long, long ago ! ” said Ulrich, lowering his eyes. 

“ Dead ! ” exclaimed the other. “ And long ago ? 
I saw him at the anvil three weeks since.” 

“ My father ? At the anvil ? And Ruth ? . . .” stam- 
mered Ulrich, gazing at the other with a pallid, ques- 
tioning face. 

“ They are alive, certainly they are alive ! I met 
him again in Antwerp. No one else can make you such 
armor. The devil is in it, if you hav’nt heard of the 
Swabian armorer.” 

“ The Swabian — the Swabian — is he my father ? ” 

“ Your own father. How long ago is it ? Thirteen 
years, for I was then sixteen. That was the last time I 
20 


3 °° 


A WORD, 


saw him, and yet I recognized him at the first glance. 
True, I shall never forget the hour, when the dumb 
woman drew the arrow from the Jew’s breast. The 
scene I witnessed that day in the forest still rises before 
my eyes, as if it were happening now.” 

“He lives, they did not kill him ! ” exclaimed the 
Eletto, now first beginning to rejoice over the surprising 
news. “ Lips, man — Philipp ! I have found my mother 
again, and now my father too. Wait, wait ! I’ll speak 
to the lieutenant, he must take my place, and you and 
I will ride to Lier; there you will tell me the 
whole story. Holy Virgin ! thanks, a thousand thanks ! 
I shall see my father again, my father !” 

It was past midnight, but the schoolmates were still 
sitting over their wine in a private room in the Lion at 
Lier. The Eletto had not grown weary of questioning, 
and Count Philipp willingly answered. 

Ulrich now knew what death the doctor had met, 
and that his father had gone to Antwerp and lived there 
as an armorer for twelve years. The Jew’s dumb wife 
had died of grief on the journey, but Ruth was living 
with the old man and kept house for him. Navarrete had 
often heard the Swabian and his work praised, and wore 
a corselet from his workshop. 

The count could tell him a great deal about Ruth. 
He acknowledged that he had not sought Adam the 
Swabian for weapons, but on account of his beautiful 
daughter. The girl was slender as a fir-tree! And 
her face ! once seen could never be forgotten. So 
might have looked the beautiful Judith, who slew Holo- 
phernes, or Queen Zenobia, or chaste Lucretia of Rome ! 
She was now past twenty and in the bloom of her 
beauty, but cold as glass; and though she liked him on 


ONLY A WORD. 


account of his old friendship for Ulrich and the affair in 
the forest, he was only permitted to look at, not touch 
her. She would rejoice when she heard that Ulrich 
was still alive, and what he had become. And the 
smith, the smith ! Nay, he would not go home now, but 
back to Antwerp to be Ulrich’s messenger ! But now 
he too would like to relate his own experiences.” 

He did so, but in a rapid, superficial way, for the 
Eletto constantly reverted to old days and his father. 
Every person whom they had both known was enquired 
for. 

Old Count Frohlinger was still alive, but suffered a 
great deal from gout and the capricious young wife he 
had married in his old age. Hangemarx had grown 
melancholy and, after all, ended his life by the rope, 
though by his own hand. Dark-skinned Xaver had 
entered the priesthood and was living in Rome in high 
esteem, as a member of a Spanish order. The abbot 
still presided over the monastery and had a great deal 
of time for his studies ; for the school had been broken 
up and, as part of the property of the monastery had 
been confiscated, the number of monks had diminished. 
The magistrate had been falsely accused of embezzling 
minors’ money, remained in prison for a year and, after 
his liberation, died of a liver complaint. 

Morning was dawning when the friends separated. 
Count Philipp undertook to tell Ruth that Ulrich had 
found his mother again. She was to persuade the smith 
to forgive his wife, with whose praises her son’s lips were 
overflowing. 

At his departure Philipp tried to induce the Eletto 
to change his course betimes, for he was following a 
dangerous pa th ; but Ulrich laughed in his face, exclaim- 
20 


3°2 


A WORD, 


ing : “ You know I have found the right word, and 
shall use it to the end. You were born to power in a 
small way; I have won mine myself, and shall not rest 
until I am permitted to exercise it on a great scale, nay, 
the grandest. If aught on earth affords a taste of 
heavenly joy, it is power ! ” 

In the camp the Eletto found the troops from 
Aalst prepared for departure, and as he rode along the 
road saw in imagination, sometimes his parents, his 
parents in a new and happy union, sometimes Ruth in 
the full splendor of her majestic beauty. He remem- 
bered how proudly he had watched his father and 
mother, when they went to church together on Sunday, 
how he had carried Ruth in his arms on their flight; and 
now he was to see and experience all this again. 

He gave his men only a short rest, for he longed to 
reach his mother. It was a glorious return home, to 
bring such tidings! How beautiful and charming he 
found life ; how greatly he praised his destiny ! 

The sun was setting behind pleasant Aalst as he 
approached, and the sky looked as if it was strewn 
with roses. 

“ Beautiful, beautiful !” he murmured, pointing out 
to his lieutenant the brilliant hues in the western 
horizon. 

A messenger hastened on in advance, the thunder 
of artillery and fanfare of music greeted the victors, as 
they marched through the gate. Ulrich sprang from 
his horse in front of the guildhall and was received by 
the captain, who had commanded during his absence. 

The Eletto hastily described the course of the bril- 
liant, victorious march, and then asked what had hap- 
pened. 


ONLY A WORD. 


3°3 


The captain lowered his eyes in embarrassment, 
saying, in a low tone: “ Nothing of great importance; 
but day before yesterday a wicked deed was committed, 
which will vex you. The woman you love, the camp 
sibyl. . . .” 

“ Who ? What ? What do you mean ?” 

“She went to Zorrillo, and he — you must not be 
startled — he stabbed her.” 

Ulrich staggered back, repeating, in a hollow tone : 
“ Stabbed !” Then seizing the other by the shoulder, 
he shrieked: “Stabbed! That means murdered — 
killed ! ” 

“He thrust his dagger into her heart, she must have 
died as quickly as if struck by lightning. Then Zor- 
rillo went away, God knows where. Who could sus- 
pect, that the quiet man. . . .” 

“ You let him escape, helped the murderer get off, 
you dogs! ” raved the wretched man. “We will speak 
of this again. Where is she, where is her body ?” 

The captain shrugged his shoulders, saying, in a 
soothing tone: “Calm yourself, Navarrete! We too 
grieve for the sibyl; many in the camp will miss her. 
As for Zorrillo, he had the password, and could go 
through the gate at any hour. The body is still lying 
in his quarters.” 

“ Indeed!” faltered the Eletto. Then calming him- 
self, he said, mournfully : “ I wish to see her.” 

The captain walked silently by his side and opened 
the murderer’s dwelling. 

There, on a bed of pine-shavings, in a rude coffin 
made of rough planks, lay the woman who had given 
him birth, deserted him, and yet who so tenderly loved 
him. A poor soldier’s wife, to whom she had been kind, 


A WORD, 


3°4 

was watching beside the corpse, at whose head a single 
brand burned with a smoky, yellow light. The little 
white dog had found its way to her, and was snuffing 
the floor, still red with its mistress’s blood. 

Ulrich snatched the brand from the bracket, and 
threw the light on the dead woman’s face. His tear- 
dimmed eyes sought his mother’s features, but only 
rested on them a moment — then he shuddered, turned 
away, and giving the torch to his companion, said, 
softly : “ Cover her head.” 

The soldier’s wife spread her coarse apron over 
the face, which had smiled so sweetly: but Ulrich 
threw himself on his knees beside the coffin, buried his 
face, and remained in this attitude for many minutes. 

At last he slowly rose, rubbed his eyes as if waking 
from some confused dream, drew himself up proudly, 
and scanned the place with searching eyes. 

He was the Eletto, and thus men honored the wo- 
man who was dear to him! 

His mother lay in a wretched pauper’s coffin, a 
ragged camp-follower watched beside her — no candles 
burned at her head, no priest prayed for the salvation 
of her soul ! 

Grief was raging madly in his breast, now indigna- 
tion joined this gloomy guest; giving vent to his pas- 
sionate emotion, Ulrich wildly exclaimed : 

“ Look here, captain ! This corpse, this woman — 
proclaim it to every one — the sibyl was my mother — 
yes, yes, my own mother ! I demand respect for her, 
the same respect that is shown myself! Must I compel 
men to render her fitting honor ? Here, bring torches. 
Prepare the catafalque in St. Martin’s church, and place 
it before the altar ! Put candles around it, as many as 


ONLY A WORD. 


3 ° 5 


can be found ! It is still early ! Lieutenant ! I am 
glad you are there ! Rouse the cathedral priests and 
go to the bishop. I command a solemn requiem for 
my mother ! Everything is to be arranged precisely as 
it was at the funeral of the Duchess of Aerschot ! Let 
trumpets give the signal for assembling. Order the 
bells to be rung ! In an hour all must be ready at St. 
Martin’s cathedral ! Bring torches here, I say ! Have 
I the right to command — yes or no ? A large oak 
coffin was standing at the joiner’s close by. Bring it 
here, here ; I need a better death-couch for my mother. 
You poor, dear woman, how you loved flowers, and no 
one has brought you even one ! Captain Ortis, I have 
issued my commands! Everything must be done, 
when I return ; — Lieutenant, you have your orders ! ” 

He rushed from the death-chamber to the sitting- 
room in his own house, and hastily tore stalks and blos- 
soms from the plants. The maid-servants watched him 
timidly, and he harshly ordered them to collect 
what he had gathered and take them to the house of 
death. 

His orders were obeyed, and when he next appeared 
at Zorrillo’s quarters, the soldiers, who had assembled 
there in throngs, parted to make way for him. 

He beckoned to them, and while he went from one 
to another, saying : “ The sibyl was my mother — Zor- 
rillo has murdered my mother,” the coffin was borne 
into the house. 

In the vestibule, he leaned his head against the wall, 
moaning and sighing, until Florette was laid in her last 
bed, and a soldier put his hand on his shoulder. Then 
Ulrich strewed flowers over the corpse, and the joiner 
came to nail up the coffin. The blows of the hammer 


3°6 


A WORD, 


actually hurt him, it seemed as if each one fell upon his 
own heart. 

The funeral procession passed through the ranks of 
soldiers, who filled the street. Several officers came to 
meet it, and Captain Ortis, approaching close to the 
Eletto, said : “ The bishop refuses the catafalque and 
the solemn requiem you requested. Your mother died 
in sin, without the sacrament. He will grant as many 
masses for the repose of her soul as you desire, but such 
high honors. . . .” 

“ He refuses them to us ?” 

“ Not to us, to the sibyl.” 

“ She was my mother, your Eletto’s mother. To the 
cathedral, forward ! ” 

“ It is closed, and will remain so to-day, for the 
bishop. . . .” 

“ Then burst the doors ! We’ll show them who has 
the power here.” 

“ Are you out of your senses ? The Holy Church !” 

“Forward, I say! Let him who is no cowardly 
wight, follow me ! ” 

Ulrich drew the commander’s baton from his belt 
and rushed forward, as if he were leading a storming- 
party ; but Ortis cried : “We will not fight against St. 
Martin ! ” and a murmur of applause greeted him. 

Ulrich checked his pace, and gnashing his teeth, ex- 
claimed : “ Will not ? Will not ?” Then gazing 

around the circle of comrades, who surrounded him on 
all sides, he asked : “ Has no one courage to help me 
to my rights? Ortis, de Vego, Diego, will you fol- 
low me, yes or no ?” 

“ No, not against the Church ! ” 

“ Then I command you,” shouted the Eletto, furi- 


ONLY A WORD. 


3 ° 7 


ously. “ Obey, Lieutenant de Vega, forward with your 
company, and burst the cathedral doors.” 

But no one obeyed, and Ortis ordered : “ Back, 
every man of you ! “ Saint Martin is my patron saint; 

let all who value their souls refuse to attack the church 
and defend it with me.” 

The blood rushed to Ulrich’s brain, and incapable 
of longer self-control, he threw his baton into the ranks 
of the mutineers, shrieking : “I hurl it at your feet ; 
whoever picks it up can keep it !” 

The soldiers hesitated ; but Ortis repeated his 
“ Back !” Other officers gave the same order, and their 
men obeyed. The street grew empty, and the Eletto’s 
mother was only followed by a few of her son’s friends ; 
no priest led the procession. In the cemetery Ulrich 
threw three handfuls of earth into the open grave, then 
with drooping head returned home. 

How dreary, how desolate the bright, flower-decked 
room seemed now, for the first time the Eletto felt 
really deserted. No tears came to relieve his grief, for 
the insult offered him that day aroused his wrath, and he 
cherished it as if it were a consolation. 

He had thrown power aside with the staff of com- 
mand. Power! It too was potter’s trash, which a 
stone might shatter, a flower in full bloom, whose leaves 
drop apart if touched by the finger ! It was no noble 
metal, only yellow mica ! 

The knocker on the door never stopped rapping. 
One officer after another came to soothe him, but he 
would not even admit his lieutenant. 

He rejoiced over his hasty deed. Fortune, he 
thought, cannot be escaped, art cannot be thrown aside; 
faroe may be trampled under foot, yet still pursue us. 


3°8 


A WORD, 


Power has this advantage over all three, it can be flung 
off like a worn-out doublet. Let it fly ! Had he owed 
it the happiness of the last few weeks? No, no! He 
would have been happy with his mother in a poor, plain 
house, without the office of Eletto, without flowers, 
horses or servants. It was to her, not to power, that he 
was indebted for every blissful hour; and now that she 
had gone, how desolate was the void in his heart ! 

Suddenly the recollection of his father and Ruth il- 
lumined his misery like a sunbeam. The game of 
Eletto was now over, he would go to Antwerp the next 
day. 

Why had fate snatched his mother from him just 
now, why did it deny him the happiness of seeing his 
parents united ? His father — she had sorely wronged 
him, but for what will not death atone ? He must take 
him some remembrance of her, and went to her room to 
look through her chest. But it no longer stood in the 
old place — the owner of the house, a rich matron, who 
had been compelled to occupy an attic -room, while 
strangers were quartered in her residence, had taken 
charge of the pale orphan and the boxes after Florette’s 
death. * 

The good Netherland dame provided for the adopted 
child and the property of her enemy, the man whose 
soldiers had pillaged her brothers and cousins. The 
death of the woman below had moved her deeply, for 
the wonderful charm of Florette’s manner had won her 
also. 

Towards midnight Ulrich took the lamp and went 
upstairs. He had long since forgotten to spare others, 
by denying himself a wish. 

The knocking at the door and the passing to and 


ONLY A WORD. 


3°9 

fro in the entry had kept Frau Geel awake. When she 
heard the Eletto’s heavy step, she sprang up from her 
spinning-wheel in alarm, and the maid-servant, half 
roused from sleep, threw herself on her knees. 

“ Frau Geel !” called a voice outside. 

She recognized Navarrete’s tones, opened the door, 
and asked what he desired. 

“It was his mother,” thought the old lady as he 
threw clothes, linen and many a trifle on the floor. “It 
was his mother. Perhaps he wants her rosary or prayer- 
book. He is her son ! They looked like a happy 
couple when they were together. A wild soldier, but he 
isn’t a wicked man yet.” 

While he searched she held the light for him, shak- 
ing her head over the disorder among the articles where 
he rummaged. 

Ulrich had now reached the bottom of the chest. 
Here he found a valuable necklace, booty which 
Zorrillo had given his companion for use in case of need. 
This should be Ruth’s. Close beside it lay a small 
package, tied with rose-pink ribbon, containing a tiny 
infant’s shirt, a gay doll, and a slender gold circlet ; her 
wedding-ring! The date showed that it had been 
given to her by his father, and the shirt and doll were 
mementos of him, her darling — of himself. 

He gazed at them, changing them from one hand to 
the other, till suddenly his heart overflowed, and without 
heeding Frau Geel, who was watching him, he wept 
softly, exclaiming : “ Mother, dear mother !” 

A light hand touched his shoulder, and a woman’s 
kind voice said: “Poor fellow, poor fellow ! Yes, she 
was a dear little thing, and a mother, a mother — that is 
enough !” \ 


A WORD, 


310 


The Eletto nodded assent with tearful eyes, and 
when she again gently repeated in a tone of sincere 
sympathy, her “poor fellow!” it sounded sweeter, than 
the loudest homage that had ever been offered to his 
fame and power. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

The next morning while Ulrich was packing his 
luggage, assisted by his servant, the sound of drums and 
fifes, bursts of military music and loud cheers were 
heard in the street, and going to the window, he saw the 
whole body of mutineers drawn up in the best order. 

The companies stood in close ranks before his house, 
impetuous shouts and bursts of music made the windows 
rattle, and now the officers pressed into his room, hold- 
ing out their swords, vowing fealty unto death, and en- 
treating him to remain their commander. 

He now perceived, that power cannot be thrown 
aside like a worthless thing. His tortured heart was 
stirred with deep emotion, and the drooping wings of 
ambition unfolded with fresh energy. He reproached, 
raged, but yielded ; and when Ortis on his knees, offered 
him the commander’s baton, he accepted it. 

Ulrich was again Eletto, but this need not prevent 
his seeing his father and Ruth once more, so he declared 
that he would retain his office, but should be obliged to 
ride to Antwerp that day, secretly inform the officers of 
the conspiracy against the city, and the necessity of ne- 
gotiating with the commandant, that their share of the 
rich prize might not be lost. 


ONLY A WORD. 


3 1 1 

What many had suspected and hoped was now to 
become reality. Their Eletto was no idle man ! When 
Navarrete appeared at noon in front of the troops with 
his own work, the standard, in his hand, he was received 
with shouts of joy, and no one murmured, though many 
recognized in the Madonna’s countenance the features 
of the murdered sibyl. 

Two days later Ulrich, full of eager expectation, 
rode into Antwerp, carrying in his portmanteau the me- 
mentos he had taken from his mother’s chest, while in 
imagination he beheld his father’s face, the smithy at 
Richtberg, the green forest, the mountains of his home, 
the Costas’ house, and his little playfellow. Would he 
really be permitted to lean on his father’s broad breast 
once more ? 

And Ruth, Ruth ! Did she still care for him, had 
Philipp described her correctly ? 

He went to the count without delay, and found him 
at home. Philipp received him cordially, yet with evi- 
dent timidity and embarrassment. Ulrich too was 
grave, for he had to inform his companion of his mother’s 
death. 

“ So that is settled,” said the count. “ Your father 
is a gnarled old tree, a real obstinate Swabian. It’s not 
his way to forgive and forget.” 

“ And did he know that my mother was so near to 
him, that she was in Aalst.” 

“ All, all !” 

“ He will forgive the dead. Surely, surely he will, 
if I beseech him, when we are united, if I tell him. . . .” 

“ Poor fellow ! You think all this is so easy. — It is 
long since I have had so hard a task, yet I must speak 
plainly. He will have nothing to do^with you, either.” 


312 


A WORD, 


“ Nothing to do with me ?” cried Ulrich. “ Is he 
out of his senses ? What sin have I committed, what 
does he. . . .” 

“ He knows that you are Navarrete, the Eletto 
of Herenthals, the conqueror of Aalst, and there- 
fore ” 

“ Therefore ?” 

“ Why of course. You see, Ulrich, when a man 
becomes famous like you, he is known for a long dis- 
tance, everything he does makes a great hue and cry, 
and echo repeats it in every alley.” 

“To my honor before God and man.” 

“ Before God ? Perhaps so ; certainly before the 
Spaniards. As for me — I was with the squadron my- 
self, I call you a brave soldier; but — no offence — you 
have behaved ill in this country. The Netherlanders 
are human beings too.” 

“ They are rebels, recreant heretics.” 

“Take care, or you will revile your own father. 
His faith has been shaken. A preacher, whom he met 
on his flight here, in some tavern, led him astray by in- 
ducing him to read the bible. Many things the Church 
condemns are sacred to him. He thinks the Nether- 
landers a free, noble nation. Your King Philip he 
considers a tyrant, oppressor, and ruthless destroyer. 
You who have served him and Alba — are in his eyes; 
but I will not wound you. . . .” 

“ What are we, I will hear.” 

“ No, no, it would do no good. In short, to Adam 
the Spanish army is a bloody pest, nothing more.” 

“ There never were braver soldiers.” 

“ Very true ; but every defeat, all the blood you 
have shed, has angered him and this nation, and wrath, 


ONLY A WORD. 


3 T 3 


which daily receives fresh food and to which men be- 
come accustomed, at last turns to hate. All great 
crimes committed in this war are associated with Alba’s 
name, many smaller ones with yours, and so your 
father. ...” 

“ Then we will teach him a better opinion ! I re- 
turn to him an honest soldier, the commander of thou- 
sands of men ! To see him once more, only to see 
him ! A son remains a son ! I learned that from my 
mother. We were rivals and enemies, when I met her ! 
And then, then — alas, that is all over! Now I wish to 
find in my father what I have lost ; will you go to the 
smithy with me ? ” 

“ No, Ulrich, no. I have said everything to your 
father that can be urged in your defence, but he is so 
devoured with rage. . .” 

“ Santiago ! ” exclaimed the Eletto, bursting into 
sudden fury, “ I need no advocate ! If the old 
man knows what share I have taken in this war, so 
much the better. I’ll fill up the gaps myself. I have 
been wherever the fight raged hottest ! ’Sdeath ! 
that is my pride ! I am no longer a boy and have 
fought my way through life without father or mother. 
What I am, I have made myself, and can defend with 
honor, even to the old man. He carries heavy guns, I 
know ; but I am not accustomed to shoot with feather 
balls ! ” 

“ Ulrich, Ulrich ! He is an old man, and your 
father ! ” 

“ I will remember that, as soon as he calls me his 
son.” 

One of the count’s servants showed Ulrich the way 
to the smith’s house, 


A WORD, 


3H 


Adam had entirely given up the business of horse- 
shoeing, for nothing was to be seen in the ground floor 
of the high, narrow house, except the large door, and 
a window on each side. Behind the closed one at 
the right were several pieces of armor, beautifully em- 
bossed, and some artistically- wrought iron articles. The 
left-hand one was partly open, granting entrance to 
the autumn sunshine. Ulrich dismissed the servant, 
took the mementos of his mother in his hand, and 
listened to the hammer-strokes, that echoed from 
within. 

The familiar sound recalled pleasant memories of his 
childhood and cooled his hot blood. Count Philipp 
was right. His father was an old man, and entitled to 
demand respect from his son. He must endure from 
him what he would tolerate from no one else. Nay, he 
again felt that it was a great happiness to be near the 
beloved one, from whom he had so long been parted ; 
whatever separated him from his old father, must surely 
vanish into nothing, as soon as they looked into each 
other’s eyes. 

What a master in his trade, his father still was ! No 
one else would have found it so easy to forge the steel 
coat of mail with the Medusa head in the centre. He 
was not working alone here as he did at Richtberg ; for 
Ulrich heard more than one hammer striking iron in the 
workshop. 

Before touching the knocker, he looked into the 
open window. 

A woman’s tall figure was standing at the desk. 

Her back was turned, and he saw only the round 
outline of the head, the long black braids, the plain 
dress, bordered with velvet, and the lace in the neck. 


ONLY A WORD. 


315 

An elderly man in the costume of a merchant was just 
holding out his hand in farewell, and he heard him say : 
“ You’ve bought too cheap again, far too cheap, Jungfer 
Ruth.” 

“ Just a fair price,” she answered quietly. “ You 
will have a good profit, and we can afford to pay it. I 
shall expect the iron day after to-morrow.” 

“ It will be delivered before noon. Master Adam 
has a treasure in you, dear Jungfer. If my son were 
alive, I know where he would seek a wife. Wilhelm 
Ykens has told me of his troubles ; he is a skilful gold- 
smith. Why do you give the poor fellow no hope? 
Consider! You are past twenty, and every year it grows 
harder to say yes to a lover.” 

“ Nothing suits me better, than to stay with father,” 
she answered gaily. “He can’t do without me, you know, 
nor I without him. I have no dislike to Wilhelm, but 
it seems very easy to live without him. Farewell, Father 
Keulitz.” 

Ulrich withdrew from the window, until the merchant 
had vanished down a side street : then he again glanced 
into the narrow room. Ruth was now seated at the 
desk, but instead of looking over the open account 
book, her eyes were gazing dreamily into vacancy, and 
the Eletto now saw her beautiful, calm, noble face. He 
did not disturb her, for it seemed as if he could never 
weary of comparing her features with the fadeless image 
his memory had treasured during all the vicissitudes of 
life. 

Never, not even in Italy, had he beheld a nobler 
countenance. Philipp was right. There was something 
royal in her bearing. This was the wife of his dreams, 
the proud woman, with whom the Eletto desired to 
21 


3 l6 


A WORD, 


share power and grandeur. And he had already held 
her once in his arms ! It seemed as if it were only yes- 
terday. His heart throbbed higher and higher. As 
she now rose and thoughtfully approached the window, 
he could no longer contain himself, and exclaimed in a 
low tone : “ Ruth, Ruth ! Do you know me, girl ? It 
is I — Ulrich ! ” 

She shrank back, putting out hei hands with a re- 
pellent gesture ; but only for a moment. Then, strug- 
gling to maintain her composure, she joyously uttered 
his name, and as he rushed into the room, cried “ Ul- 
rich ! ” “ Ulrich ! ” and no longer able to control her 
feelings, suffered him to clasp her to his heart. 

She had daily expected him with ardent longing, yet 
secret dread : for he was the fierce Eletto, the com- 
mander of the insurgents, the bloody foe of the brave 
nation she loved. But at sight of his face all, all was 
forgotten, and she felt nothing but the bliss of being 
reunited to him whom she had never, never forgotten, 
the joy of seeing, feeling that he loved her. 

His heart too was overflowing with passionate de- 
light. Faltering tender words, he drew her head to his 
breast, then raised it to press his mouth to her pure lips. 
But her intoxication of joy passed away — and before he 
could prevent it, she had escaped from his arms, saying 
sternly : “Not that, not that . . . Many a crime lies 
between us and you.” 

“No, no!” he eagerly exclaimed. “Are you not 
near me ? Your heart and mine have belonged to each 
other since that day in the snow. If my father is angry 
because I serve other masters than his, you, yes 
you, must reconcile us again. I could stay in Aalst no 
longer,” 


ONLY A WORD. 


3*7 


“ With the mutineers ? ” she asked sadly. “ Ulrich, 
Ulrich, that you should return to us thus ! ” 

He again seized her hand, and when she tried to 
withdraw it, only smiled, saying with the confidence of 
a man, who is sure of his cause : 

“ Cast aside this foolish reserve. To-morrow you 
will freely give me, not only one hand, but both. I am 
not so bad as you think. The fortune of war flung me 
under the Spanish flag, and ‘ whose bread I eat, his 
song I sing,’ says the soldier. What would you have ? 
I served with honor, and have done some doughty deeds ; 
let that content you.” 

This angered Ruth, who resolutely exclaimed : 

“No, a thousand times no ! You are the Eletto of 
Aalst, the pillager of cities, and this cannot be 
swept aside as easily as the dust from the floor. I ... I 
am only a feeble girl; — but father, he will never give 
his hand to the blood-stained man in Spanish garb ! I 
know him, I know it.” 

Ulrich’s breath came quicker ; but he repressed the 
angry emotion and replied, first reproachfully, then be- 
seechingly : 

“ You are the old man’s echo. What does he know 
of military honor and warlike fame; but you, Ruth, must 
understand me. Do you still remember our sport with 
the “word,” the great word that accomplished every- 
thing ? I have found it ; and you shall enjoy with me 
what it procures. First help me appease my father; I 
shall succeed, if you aid me. It will doubtless be a hard 
task. He could not bring himself to forgive his poor 
wife — Count Philipp says so; — but now! You see, 
Ruth, my mother died a few days ago ; she was a dear, 
loving woman and might have deserved a better fate. 

21 


A WORD, 


3 lS 

I am alone again now, and long for love — so ardently, 
so sincerely, more than I can tell you. Where 
shall I find it, if not with you and my own father ? 
You have always cared for me; you betray it, and 
after all you know I am not a bad man, do you not ? 
Be content with my love and take me to my father, 
yourself. Help me persuade him to listen to me. I 
have something here which you can give him from me ; 
you will see that it will soften his heart ! ” 

“ Then give it to me,” replied Ruth, “ but whatever 
it may be — believe me, Ulrich, so long as you com- 
mand the Spanish mutineers, he will remain hard, hard 
as his own iron ! ” 

“Spaniards! Mutineers! Nonsense! Whoever wishes 
to love, can love ; the rest may be settled after- 
wards. You don’t know how high my heart throbs, 
now that I am near you, now that I see and hear you. 
You are my good angel and must remain so, now look 
here. This is my mother’s legacy. This little shirt I 
once wore, when I was a tiny thing, the gay doll was my 
plaything, and this gold hoop is the wedding-ring my 
father gave his bride at the altar — she kept all these 
things to the last, and carried them like holy relics from 
land to land, from camp to camp. Will you take these 
mementos to him ?” 

She nodded silently. 

“ Now comes the best thing. Have you ever seen 
more beautiful workmanship ? You must wear this 
necklace, Ruth, as my first gift.” 

He held up the costly ornament, but she shrank 
back, asking bitterly : 

“ Captured booty ?” 

“In honorable war,” he answered, proudly, ap* 


ONLY A WORD* 


3 « 9 . 


proaching to fasten the jewels round her neck with his 
own hands; but she pushed him back, snatched the 
ornament, and hurled it on the floor, exclaiming 
angrily : 

“ I loathe the stolen thing. Pick it up. It may 
suit the camp-followers.” 

This destroyed his self-control, and seizing both her 
arms in an iron grasp, he muttered through his clenched 
teeth : 

“ That is an insult to my mother; take it back.” 

But Ruth heard and saw nothing; full of indigna- 
tion she only felt that violence was being done her, and 
vainly struggled against the irresistible strength, which 
held her fast. 

Meantime the door had opened wide, but neither 
noticed it until a man’s deep voice loudly and wrath- 
fully exclaimed: 

“ Back, you scoundrel ! Come here, Ruth. This 
is the way the assassin greets his family ; begone, be- 
gone ! you disgrace of my house !” 

Adam had uttered the words, and now drew the 
hammer from the belt of his leather apron. 

Ulrich gazed mutely into his face. There stood his 
father, strong, gigantic, as he had looked thirteen years 
before. His head was a little bowed, his beard longer 
and whiter, his eyebrows were more bushy and his ex- 
pression had grown more gloomy; otherwise he was 
wholly unchanged in every feature. 

The son’s eyes rested on the smith as if spellbound. 
It seemed as if some malicious fate had drawn him into 
a snare. 

He could say nothing except, “ father, father,” and the 
smith found no other answer than the harsh “ begone !” 


320 


a Word, 


Ruth approached the armorer, clung to his side, and 
pleaded : 

“ Hear him, don’t send him away so ; he is youi 
child, and if anger just now overpowered him. . 

“ Spanish custom — to abuse women!” cried Adam. 
“ I have no son Navarrete, or whatever the murder- 
ous monster calls himself. I am a burgher, and have 
no son, who struts about in the stolen clothes of noble- 
men ; as to this man and his assassins, I hate them, 
hate them all. Your foot defiles my house. Out with 
you, knave, or I will use my hammer.” 

Ulrich again exclaimed, “ father, father!” Then, 
regaining his self-control by a violent effort, he gasped; 
“Father, I came to you in good will, in love. I am an 
honest soldier and if any one but you — ’Sdeath — 
if any other had dared to offer me this. . . .” 

“ Murder the dog, you would have said,” interrupted 
the smith. “We know the Spanish blessing : a sangre , 
a came/* Thanks for your forbearance. There is the 
door. Another word, and I can restrain myself no 
longer.” 

Ruth had clung firmly to the smith, and motioned 
Ulrich to go. The Eletto groaned aloud, struck his 
forehead with his clenched fist, and rushed into the 
open air. 

As soon as Adam was alone with Ruth she caught 
his hand, exclaiming beseechingly : 

“ Father, father, he is your own son! Love your 
enemies, the Saviour commanded ; and you. . . .” 

“ And I hate him,” said the smith, curtly and reso- 
lutely. “ Did he hurt you ?” 


Blood, murder. 


ONLY A WORD. 


3*r 


“Your hate hurts me ten times as much! You 
judge without examining; yes, father, you do! When 
he assaulted me, he was in the right. He thought I 
had insulted his mother.” 

Adam shrugged his shoulders, and she continued : 

“ The poor woman is dead. Ulrich brought you 
yonder ring; she never parted with it.” 

The armorer started, seized the golden hoop, looked 
for the date inside, and when he had found it, clasped 
the ring in his hands and pressed them silently to his 
temples. He stood in this attitude a short time, then 
let his arms fall, and said softly : 

“The dead must be forgiven . . .” 

“And the living, father ? You have punished him 
terribly, and he is not a wicked man, no, indeed he is 
not! If he comes back again, father? ” 

“ My apprentices shall show the Spanish mutineer 
the door,” cried the old man in a harsh, stern tone ; “ to 
the burgher’s repentant son my house will be always 
open.” 

Meantime the Eletto wandered from one street to 
another. He felt bewildered, disgraced. 

It was not grief — no quiet heartache that dis- 
turbed — but a confused blending of wrath and sorrow. 
He did not wish to appear before the friend of his 
youth, and even avoided Hans Eitelfritz, who came 
towards him. He was blind to the gay, joyous bustle 
of the capital; life seemed grey and hollow. His inten- 
tion of communicating with the commandant of the 
citadel remained unexecuted ; for he thought of nothing 
but his father’s anger, of Ruth, his own shame and 
misery. 

He could not leave so. 

i 


322 


A WORD, 


His father must, yes, lie must hear him, and when it 
grew dusk, he again sought the house to which he be- 
longed, and from which he had been so cruelly ex- 
pelled. 

The door was locked. In reply to his knock, a 
man’s unfamiliar voice asked who he was, and what he 
wanted. 

He asked to speak with Adam, and called himself 
Ulrich. 

After waiting a long time he heard a door tom open, 
and the smith angrily exclaim : 

“ To your spinning-wheel ! Whoever clings to him 
so long as he wears the Spanish dress, means evil to him 
as well as to me.” 

“ But hear him ! You must hear him, father !” cried 
Ruth. 

The door closed, heavy steps approached the door 
of the house ; it opened, and again Adam confronted his 
son. 

“ What do you want ?” he asked harshly. 

“ To speak to you, to tell you that you did wrong to 
insult me unheard.” 

“ Are you still the Eletto ? Answer ! ” 

“ I am !” 

“ And intend to remain so ?” 

“ Que como — puede ser — ” faltered Ulrich, who 
confused by the question, had strayed into the language 
in which he had been long accustomed to think. But 
scarcely had the smith distinguished the foreign words, 
when fresh anger seized him. 

“ Then go to perdition with your Spaniards !” was 
the furious answer. 

The door slammed so that the house shook, and 


ONLY A WORD. 


3 2 3 


by degrees the smith’s heavy tread died away in the 
vestibule. 

“All over, all over!” murmured the rejected son. 
Then calming himself, he clenched his fist and muttered 
through his set teeth : “ There shall be no lack of ruin ; 
whoever it befalls, can bear it.” 

While walking through the streets and across the 
squares, he devised plan after plan, imagining what 
must come. Sword in hand he would burst the old 
man’s door, and the only booty he asked for himself 
should be Ruth, for whom he longed, who in spite of 
everything loved him, who had belonged to him from 
her childhood. 

The next morning he negotiated cleverly and boldly 
with the commandant of the Spanish forces in the 
citadel. The fate of the city was sealed ! and when he 
again crossed the great square and saw the city-hall 
with its proud, gable-crowned central building, and the 
shops in the lower floor crammed With wares, he laughed 
savagely. 

Hans Eitelfritz had seen him in the distance, and 
shouted : 

“ A pretty little house, three stories high. And how 
the broad windows, between the pillars in the side wings, 
glitter !” 

Then he lowered his voice, for the square was swarm- 
ing with men, carts and horses, and continued : 

“ Look closer and choose your quarters. Come 
with me ! I’ll show you where the best things we need 
can be found. Haven’t we bled often enough for the 
pepper-sacks ? Now it will be our turn to fleece them. 
The castles here, with the gingerbread work on the 
gables, are the guildhalls. There is gold enough in 


3 2 4 


A WORD, 


each one, to make the company rich. Now this way! 
Directly behind the city-hall lies the Zucker Canal. 
There live stiff-necked people, who dine off of silvei 
every day. Notice the street !” 

Then he led him back to the square, and continued : 

“The streets here all lead to the quay. Do you 
know it ? Have you seen the warehouses ? Filled to 
the very roof! The malmsey, dry canary and Indian 
allspice, might transform the Scheldt and Baltic Sea 
into a huge vat of hippocras.” 

Ulrich followed his guide from street to street. 
Wherever he looked, he saw vast wealth in barns and 
magazines ; in houses, palaces and churches. 

Hans Eitelfritz stopped before a jeweller’s shop, 
saying : 

“ Look here ! I particularly admire these things, these 
toys : the little dog, the sled, the lady with the hoop- 
skirt, all these things are pure silver. When the pillage 
begins, I shall grasp these and take them to my sister’s 
little children in Colin ; they will be delighted, and if it 
should ever be necessary, their mother can sell them.” 

What a throng crowded the most aristocratic streets ! 
English, Spanish, Italian and Hanseatic merchants tried 
to outdo the Netherland traders in magnificent clothes 
and golden ornaments. Ulrich saw them all assembled 
in the Gothic exchange on the Mere, the handsomest 
square in the city. There they stood in the vast open 
hall, on the checkered marble floor, not by hundreds, 
but by thousands, dealing in goods which came from 
all quarters of the globe — from the most distant lands. 
Their offers and bids mingled in a noise audible at 
a long distance, which was borne across the square 
like the echo of ocean surges. 


ONLY A WORD. 


325 

Sums were discussed, which even the winged imagin- 
ation of the lansquenet could scarcely grasp. This city 
was a remarkable treasure, a thousand-fold richer booty 
than had been garnered from the Ottoman treasure- 
ship on the sea at Lepanto. 

Here was the fortune the Eletto needed, to build the 
palace in which he intended to place Ruth. To whom 
else would fall the lion’s share of the enormous prize ! 

His future happiness was to arise from the destruc- 
tion of this proud city, stifling in its gold. 

These were ambitious brilliant plans, but he devised 
them with gloomy eyes, in a darkened mind. He in- 
tended to win by force what was denied him, so long as 
the power belonged to him. 

There could be no lack of flames and carnage; but 
that was part of his trade, as shavings belong to flames, 
hammer-strokes to smiths. 

Count Philipp had no suspicion of the assault, was 
not permitted to suspect anything. He attributed 
Ulrich’s agitated manner to the rejection he had en- 
countered in his father’s house, and when he took leave 
of him on his departure to Swabia, talked kindly with his 
former schoolmate and advised him to leave the Spanish 
flag and try once more to be reconciled to the old man. 

Before the Eletto quitted the city, he gave Hans 
Eitelfritz, whose regiment had secretly joined the mutiny, 
letters of safeguard for his family and the artist, Moor. 

He had not forgotten the latter, but well-founded 
timidity withheld him from appearing before the honored 
man, while cherishing the gloomy thoughts that now 
filled his soul. 

In Aalst the mutineers received him with eager joy, 
harsh and repellent as he appeared, they cheerfully 


3 2 <5 


A WORD, 


obeyed him ; for he could hold out to them a prospect, 
which lured a bright smile to the bearded lips of the 
grimmest warrior. 

If power was the word, he scarcely understood how 
to use it aright, for wholly absorbed in himself, he led a 
joyless life of dissatisfied longing and gloomy reverie. 
It seemed to him as if he had lost one half of himself, 
and needed Ruth to become the whole man. Hours 
grew to days, days to weeks, and not until Roda’s mes- 
senger appeared from the citadel in Antwerp to summon 
him to action, did he revive and regain his old vivacity. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

On the twentieth of October Mastricht fell into the 
Spaniards’ hands, and was cruelly pillaged. The garrison 
of Antwerp rose and began to make common cause with 
the friends of the mutineers in the citadel. 

Foreign merchants fled from the imperilled city. 
Governor Champagny saw his own person and the 
cause of order seriously threatened by the despots in the 
fortress, which dominated the town. A Netherland 
army, composed principally of Walloons, under the com- 
mand of the incapable Marquis Havre, the reckless de 
Heze and other nobles appeared before the capital, to 
prevent the worst. 

Champagny feared that the German regiments would 
feel insulted and scent treason, if he admitted the gov- 
ernment troops — but the majority of the lansquenets 
were already in league with the insurgents, the danger 
hourly increased, everywhere loyalty wavered, the citi- 


ONLY A WORD. 


327 


zens urgently pressed the matter, and the gates were 
opened to the Netherlanders. 

Count Oberstein, the German commander of the 
lansquenets, who while intoxicated had pledged himself 
to make common cause with the mutineers in the cita- 
del, remembered his duty and remained faithful to the 
end. The regiment in which Hans Eitelfritz served, 
and the other companies of lansquenets, had succumbed 
to the temptation, and only waited the signal for revolt. 
The inhabitants felt just like a man, who keeps powder 
and firebrands in the cellar, or a traveller, who recog- 
nizes robbers and murderers in his own escort. 

Champagny called upon the citizens to help them- 
selves, and used their labor in throwing up a wall of de- 
fence in the open part of the city, which was most 
dangerously threatened by the citadel. Among the 
men and women who voluntarily flocked to the work by 
thousands, were Adam, the smith, his apprentices, and 
Ruth. The former, with his journeymen, wielded the 
spade under the direction of a skilful engineer, the girl, 
with other women, braided gabions from willow- 
rods. 

She had lived through sorrowful days. Self-reproach, 
for having by her hasty fit of temper caused the father's 
outburst of anger to his son, constantly tortured her. 

She had learned to hate the Spaniards as bitterly as 
Adam ; she knew that Ulrich was following a wicked, 
criminal course, yet she loved him, his image had been 
treasured from childhood, unassailed and unsullied, in 
the most sacred depths of her heart. He was all in all 
to her, the one person destined for her, the man to 
whom she belonged as the eye does to the face, the 
heart to the breast. 


328 


A WORD, 


She believed in his love, and when she strove to 
condemn and forget him, it seemed as if she were alien- 
ating, rejecting the best part of herself. 

A thousand voices told her that she lived in his soul, 
as much as he did in hers, that his existence without her 
must be barren and imperfect. She did not ask when 
and how, she only prayed that she might become his, ex- 
pecting it as confidently as light in the morning, spring 
after winter. Nothing appeared so irrefutable as this 
faith ; it was the belief of her loving soul. Then, when 
the inevitable had happened they would be one in 
their aspirations for virtue, and the son could no 
longer close his heart against the father, nor the 
father shut his against the son. 

The child’s vivid imagination was still alive in the 
maiden. Every leisure hour she had thought of her 
lost playfellow, every day she had talked to his father 
about him, asking whether he would rather see him re- 
turn as a famous artist, a skilful smith, or commander 
of a splendid ship. 

Handsome, strong, superior to other men, he had 
always appeared. Now she found him following evil 
courses, on the path to ruin ; yet even here he was peer- 
less among his comrades ; whatever stain rested upon 
him, he certainly was not base and mean. 

As a child, she always had transformed him into a splen- 
did fairy-prince, but she now divested him of all magnifi- 
cence, seeing him attired in plain burgher dress, appear 
humbly before his father and stand beside him at the 
forge. She dreamed that she was by his side, and before 
her stood the table she covered with food for him, and 
the water she gave him after his work. She heard the 
house shake under the mighty blows of his hammer, and 


ONLY A WORD. 


3 2 9 

in imagination beheld him lay his curly head in her lap, 
and say he had found love and peace with her. 

The cannonade from the citadel stopped the citizens’ 
work. Open hostilities had begun. 

On the morning of November 4th, under the cover 
of a thick fog, the treacherous Spaniards, commanded 
by Romero, Vargas and Valdez entered the fortress. 
The citizens, among them Adam, learned this fact with 
rage and terror, but the mutineers of Aalst had not yet 
come. 

“ He is keeping them back,” Ruth had said the day 
before. “ Antwerp, our home, is sacred to him !” 

The cannon roared, culverins crashed, muskets and 
arquebuses rattled ; the boding notes of the alarm-bells 
and the fierce shouts of soldiers and citizens hurrying 
to battle mingled with the deafening thunder of the 
artillery. 

Every hand seized a weapon, every shop was closed ; 
hearts stood still with fear, or throbbed wildly with rage 
and emotion. Ruth remained calm. She detained the 
smith in the house, repeating her former words : “ The 
men from Aalst are not coming; he is keeping them back.” 

Just at that moment the young apprentice, whose 
parents lived on the Scheldt, rushed with dishevelled 
hair into the workshop, gasping : 

“ The men from Aalst are here. They crossed in 
peatboats and a galley. They wear green twigs in their 
helmets, and the Eletto is marching in the van, bearing 
the standard. I saw them ; — terrible — horrible — sheathed 
in iron from- top to toe.” 

He said no more, for Adam, with a savage impreca- 
tion, interrupted him, seized his huge hammer, and 
rushed out of the house. 


33o 


A WORD, 


Ruth staggered back into the workshop. 

Adam hurried straight to the rampart. Here stood 
six thousand Walloons, to defend the half-finished wall, 
and behind them large bodies of armed citizens. 

“ The men from Aalst have come ! ” echoed from lip 
to lip. 

Curses, wails of grief, yells of savage fury, blended 
with the thunder of the artillery and the ringing of the 
alarm bells. 

A fugitive now dashed from the counterscarp towards 
the Walloons, shouting : 

“ They are here, they are here ! The blood-hound, 
Navarrete, is leading them. They will neither eat nor 
drink, they say, till they dine in Paradise or Antwerp. 
Hark, hark! there they are!” 

And they were there, coming nearer and nearer; 
foremost of all marched the Eletto, holding the stand- 
ard in his upraised hand. 

Behind him, from a thousand bearded lips, echoed 
furious, greedy, terrible cries ; “ Santiago, Espana , a 
sangre , d came , a fuego, a saco /”* but Navarrete was 
silent, striding onward, erect and haughty, as if he were 
proof against the bullets, that whistled around him on 
all sides. Consciousness of power and the fierce joy of 
battle sparkled in his eyes. Woe betide him, who re- 
ceived a blow from the two-handed sword the Eletto 
still held over his shoulder, now with his left hand. 

Adam stood with upraised hammer beside the front 
ranks of the Walloons ! his eyes rested as if spellbound 
on his approaching son and the standard jn his hand. 
The face of the guilty woman, who had defrauded him 


St. Jago ; Spain, blood, murder, fire, pillage ! 


ONLY A WORD. 


33 


of the happiness of hrs life, gazed at him trom the ban- 
ner. He knew not whether he was awake, or the sport 
of some bewildering dream. 

Now, now his glance met the Eletto’s, and unable 
to restrain himself longer, he raised his hammer and 
tried to rush forward, but the Walloons forced him 
back. 

Yes, y$s, he hated his own child, and trembling with 
rage, burning to rush upon him, he saw the Eletto spring 
on the lowest projection of the wall, to climb up. For 
a short time he was concealed from his eyes, then he 
saw the top of the standard, then the banner itself, and 
now his son stood on the highest part of the rampart, 
shouting : “ Espaha , Espana / ” 

At this moment, with a deafening din, a hundred 
arquebuses were discharged close beside the smith, a 
dense cloud of smoke darkened the air, and when the 
wind dispersed it, Adam no longer beheld the standard. 
It lay on the ground; beside it the Eletto, with his 
face turned upward, mute and motionless. 

The father groaned aloud and closed his eyes ; 
when he opened them, hundreds of iron-mailed muti- 
neers had scaled the rampart. Beneath their feet lay 
his bleeding child. 

Corpse after corpse sank on the stone wall beside 
the fallen man, but the iron wedge of the Spaniards 
pressed farther and farther forward. 

“ Espana , a sangre , a carne !” 

Now they had reached the Walloons, steel clashed 
against steel, but only for a moment, then the de- 
fenders of the city wavered, the furious wedge en- 
tered their ranks, they parted, yielded, and with loud 
shrieks took to flight. The Spanish swords raged 
22 


A WORD, 


33 ^ 

among them, and overpowered by the general terror, 
the officers followed the example of the soldiers, the 
flying army, like a resistless torrent, carrying everything 
with it, even the smith. 

An unparalleled massacre began. Adam seeing a 
frantic horde rush into the houses, remembered Ruth, 
and half mad with terror hastened back to the smithy, 
where he told those left behind what he had witnessed. 
Then, arming himself and his journeymen with weapons 
forged by his own hand, he hurried out with them to 
renew the fight. 

Hours elapsed ; the noise, the firing, the ringing of 
the alarm bells still continued ; smoke and the smell of 
fire penetrated through the doors and windows. 

Evening came, and the richest, most flourishing 
commercial capital in the world was here a heap of 
ashes, there a ruin, everywhere a plundered treasury. 

Once the occupants of the smith’s shop heard a band 
of murderers raging and shouting outside of the smithy ; 
biit they passed by, and all day long no others entered 
the quiet street, which was inhabited only by workers in 
metal. 

Ruth and old Rahel had remained behind, under the 
protection of the brave foreman. Adam had told them 
to fly to the cellar, if any uproar arose outside the door. 
Ruth wore a dagger, determined in the worst extremity 
to turn it against her own breast. What did she care 
for life, since Ulrich had perished ! 

Old Rahel, an aged dame of eighty, paced restlessly, 
with bowed figure, through the large room, saying com- 
passionately, whenever her eyes met the girl’s : “ Ulrich, 
our Ulrich !” then, straightening herself and looking up- 
ward. She no longer knew what had happened a few 


ONLY A WORD. 


333 


hours before, yet her memory faithfully retained the in- 
cidents that occurred many years previous. The maid- 
servant, a native of Antwerp, had rushed home to her 
parents when the tumult began. 

As the day drew towards a close, the panes were 
less frequently shaken by the thunder of the artillery, 
the noise in the streets diminished, but the house be- 
came more and more filled with suffocating smoke. 

Night came, the lamp was lighted, the women 
started at every new sound, but anxiety for Adam now 
overpowered every other feeling in Ruth’s mind. Just 
then the door opened, and the smith’s deep voice called 
in the vestibule : “ It is I ! Don’t be frightened, it is I !” 

He had gone out with five journeymen : he re- 
turned with two. The others lay slain in the streets, 
and with them Count Oberstein’s soldiers, the only ones 
who had stoutly resisted the Spanish mutineers and their 
allies to the last man. 

Adam had swung his hammer on the Mere and 
by the Zucker Canal among the citizens, who fought 
desperately for the property and lives of their families ; 
— but all was vain. Vargas’s troopers had stifled even 
the last breath of resistance. 

The streets ran blood, corpses lay in heaps before 
the doors and on the pavement — among them the 
bodies of the Margrave of Antwerp, Verreyck, Burgo- 
master van der Mere, and many senators and nobles. 
Conflagration after conflagration crimsoned the heavens, 
the superb city-hall was blazing, and from a thousand 
windows echoed the screams of the assailed, plundered, 
bleeding citizens, women and children. 

The smith hastily ate a few mouthfuls to restore his 
strength, then raised his head, saying: “No one has 

90 


334 


-A WORD- 


touched our house. The door and shutters of neighbor 
Ykens’ are shattered.” 

“ A miracle ! ” cried old Rahel, raising her staff 
“ The generation of vipers scent richer booty than iron 
at the silversmith’s.” 

Just at that moment the knocker sounded. Adam 
started up, put on his coat of mail again, motioned to 
his journeymen and went to the door. 

Rahel shrieked loudly : “ To the cellar, Ruth. Oh, 
God, oh, God, have mercy upon us! Quick — where’s 
my shawl? — They are attacking us! — Come, come ! 
Oh, I am caught, I can go no farther !” 

Mortal terror had seized the old woman ; she did 
not want to die. To the girl death was welcome, and 
she did not stir. 

Voices were now audible in the vestibule, but they 
sounded neither noisy nor threatening; yet Rahel 
shrieked in despair as a lansquenet, fully armed, entered 
the workshop with the armorer. 

Hans Eitelfritz had come to look for Ulrich’s father. 
In his arms lay the dog Lelaps, which, bleeding from 
the wound made by a bullet, that grazed its neck, 
nestled trembling against its master. 

Bowing courteously to Ruth, the soldier said : 

“Take pity on this poor creature, fair maiden, and 
wash its wound with a little wine. It deserves it. I 
could tell you such tales of its cleverness ! It came 
from distant India, where a pirate .... But you shall 
hear the story some other time. Thanks, thanks ! As 
to your son, Meister, it’s a thousand pities about him. 
He was a splendid fellow, and we were like two 
brothers. He himself gave me the safeguard for you 
and the artist, Moor. I fastened them on the doors with 


ONLY A WORD. 


335 


my own hands, as soon as the fray began. My sword- 
bearer got the paste, and now may the writing stick 
there as an honorable memento till the end of the world. 
Navarrete was a faithful fellow, who never forgot his 
friends ! How much good that does Lelaps ! See, see ! 
He is licking your hands, that means, ‘ I thank you.’ ” 

While Ruth had been washing the dog’s wound, and 
the lansquenet talked of Ulrich, her tearful eyes met the 
father’s. 

“ They say he cut down twenty-one Walloons be- 
fore he fell,” continued Hans. 

“ No, sir,” interrupted Adam. “I saw him. He 
was shot before he raised his guilty sword.” 

“ Ah, ah ! — but it happened on the rampart.” 

“ They rushed over him to the assault.” 

“ And there he still lies ; not a soul has cared for 
the dead and wounded.” 

The girl started, and laid the dog in the old man’s 
lap, exclaiming : “ Suppose Ulrich should be alive ! 
Perhaps he was not mortally wounded, perhaps ...” 

“ Yes, everything is possible,” interrupted the lans- 
quenet. “ I could tell you things ... for instance, there 
was a countryman of mine whom, when we were in 
Africa, a Moorish Pacha struck ... no lies now . . . 
perhaps ! In earnest; it might happen that Ulrich . . . 
wait ... at midnight I shall keep guard on the rampart 
with my company, then I’ll look . . .” 

“ We, we will seek him 1” cried Ruth, seizing the 
smith’s arm. 

“ I will,” replied the smith; “you must stay here.” 

“ No, father, I will go with you.” 

The lansquenet also shook his head, saying : 

“ Jungfer, Jungfer, you don’t know what a day this is. 


33 ^ 


A WORD. 


Thank our Heavenly Father, that you have hitherto 
escaped so well. The fierce lion has tasted blood. You 
are a pretty child, and if they should see you to-day ...” 

“No matter,” interrupted the girl. “ I know what 
I am asking. You will take me with you, father! Do 
so, if you love me ! I will find him, if any one can ! 
Oh, sir, sir, you look kind and friendly ! You have the 
guard. Escort us ; let me seek Ulrich. I shall find 
him, I know ; I must seek him — I must.” 

The girl’s cheeks were glowing ; for before her she 
saw her playfellow, her lover, gasping for breath, with 
staring eyes, her name upon his dying lips. 

Adam sadly shook his head, but Hans Eitelfritz was 
touched by the girl’s eager longing to help the man 
who was dear to him, so he hastily taxed his inventive 
brain, saying: 

“ Perhaps it might be risked. . . listen to me, Meister ! 
You won’t be particularly safe in the streets, yourself, 
and could hardly reach the rampart without me. I shall 

lose precious time ; but you are his father, and this 

girl — is she his sister? — No ? — So much the better for 
him, if he lives ! It isn’t an easy matter, but it can be 
done. Yonder good dame will take care of Lelaps for 
me. Poor dog! That feels good, doesn’t it? Well 
then. . . I can be here again at midnight. Have you 
a handcart in the house ?” 

“For coal and iron.” 

“ That will answer. Let the woman make a kettle of 
soup, and if you have a few hams. . . .” 

“ There are four in the store-room,” cried Ruth. 

“Take some bread, a few jugs of wine, and a 
keg of beer, too, and then follow me quietly. I have 
the password, my servant will accompany me, and I’ll 


ONLY A WORD. 


337 


make the Spaniards believe you belong to us, and are 
bringing my men their supper. Blacker your pretty 
face a little, my dear girl, wrap yourself up well, and if 
we find Ulrich we will put him in the empty cart, and I 
will accompany you home again. Take yonder spice- 
sack, and if we find the poor fellow, dead or alive, hide 
him with it. The sack was intended for other things, 
but I shall be well content with this booty. Take care 
of these silver toys. What pretty things they are ! How 
the little horse rears, and see the bird in the cage ! Don’t 
look so fierce, Meister ! In catching fish we must be 
content even with smelts ; if I hadn’t taken these, others 
would have done so ; they are for my sister’s children, 
and there is something else hidden here in my doublet ; 
it shall help me to pass my leisure hours. One man’s 
meat is another man’s poison.” 

When Hans Eitelfritz returned at midnight, the cart 
with the food and liquor was ready. Adam’s warnings 
were unavailing. Ruth resolutely insisted upon accom- 
panying him, and he well knew what urged her to risk 
safety and life as freely as he did himself. 

Old Rahel had done her best to conceal Ruth’s 
beauty. 

The dangerous nocturnal pilgrimage began. 

The smith pulled the cart, and Ruth pushed, Hans 
Eitelfritz, with his sword-bearer, walking by her side. 

From time to time Spanish soldiers met and accosted 
them; but Hans skilfully satisfied their curiosity and 
dispelled their suspicions. 

Pillage and murder had not yet ceased, and Ruth 
saw, heard, and mistrusted scenes of horror, that con- 
gealed her blood. But she bore up until they reached 
the rampart. 


33 8 


' WORD, 


Here Eitelfritz was among his own men. 

He delivered the meat and drink to them, told them 
to take it out of the cart, and invited them to fall to 
boldly. Then, seizing a lantern, he guided Ruth and 
the smith, who drew the light cart after them, through 
the intense darkness of the November night to the ram- 
part. 

Hans Eitelfritz lighted the way, and all three 
searched. Corpse lay beside corpse. Wherever Ruth set 
her foot, it touched some fallen soldier. Dread, horror 
and loathing threatened to deprive her of consciousness ; 
but the ardent longing, the one last hope of her soul 
sustained her, steeled her energy, sharpened her 
sight. 

They had reached the centre of the rampart, when 
she saw in the distance a tall figure stretched at full 
length. 

That, yes, that was he ! 

Snatching the lantern from the lansquenet’s hand, 
she rushed to the prostrate form, threw herself on her 
knees beside it, and cast the light upon the face. 

What had she seen ? 

Why did the shriek she uttered sound so agonized ? 

The men were approaching, but Ruth knew that 
there was something else to be done, besides weeping 
and wailing. 

She pressed her ear close to the mailed breast to 
listen, and when she heard no breath, hurriedly un- 
fastened the clasps and buckles that confined the armor. 

The cuirass fell rattling on the ground, and now — 
no, there was no deception, the wounded man’s chest 
rose under her ear, she heard the faint throbbing of his 
heart, the feeble flutter of a gasping breath. 


ONI A' A WORD 


339 


Bursting into loud, convulsive weeping, she raised 
his head and pressed it to her bosom. 

“ He is dead ; I thought so !” said the lansquenet, 
and Adam sank on his knees before his wounded son. 

But Ruth’s sobs now changed to low, joyous, musical 
laughter, which echoed in her voice as she exclaimed : 
“ Ulrich breathes, he lives ! Oh, God ! oh, God ! how 
we thank Thee !” 

Then — was she deceived, could it be? She heard 
the inflexible man beside her sob, saw him bend over 
Ulrich, listen to the beating of his heart, and press his 
bearded lips first to his temples, then on the hand he had 
so harshly rejected. 

Hans Eitelfritz warned them to hasten, carried the 
senseless man, with Adam’s assistance, to the cart, and 
half an hour later the dangerously wounded, outcast 
son was lying in the most comfortable bed in the best 
room in his father’s house. His couch was in the upper 
story; down in the kitchen old Rahel was moving 
about the hearth, preparing her “good salve” herself. 
While thus engaged she often chuckled aloud, murmur- 
ing “ Ulrich,” and while mixing and stirring the mixture 
could not keep her old feet still ; it almost seemed as if 
she wanted to dance. 

Hans Eitelfritz promised Adam to tell no one what 
had become of his son, and then returned to his men. 

The next morning the mutineers from Aalst sought 
their fallen leader; but he had disappeared, and the 
legend now became wide-spread among them, that the 
Prince of Evil had carried Navarrete to his own abode. 

The dog Lelaps died of his wound, and scarcely a 
week after the pillage of flourishing Antwerp by the 
“ Spanish Furies,” Hans Eitelfritz’s regiment was ordered 


34 ° 


A WORD, 


to Ghent. He came with drooping head to the smithy, 
to take his leave. He had sold his costly booty, and, 
like so many other pillagers, gambled away the stolen 
property at the exchange. Nothing was left him of the 
great day in Antwerp, except the silver toys for his 
sister’s children in Colin on the Spree. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

The fire in the smithy was extinguished, no hammer 
fell on the anvil ; for the wounded man lay in a burning 
fever; every loud noise disturbed him. Adam had 
noticed this himself, and gave no time to his work, for 
he had to assist in nursing his son, when it was neces- 
sary to raise his heavy body, and to relieve Ruth, when, 
after long night-watches, her vigorous strength was 
exhausted. 

The old man saw that the girl’s hands were more 
deft than his own toil-hardened ones, and let her take 
the principal charge — but the hours when she was 
resting in her room were the dearest to him, for then he 
was alone with Ulrich, could read his countenance un- 
disturbed and rejoice in gazing at every feature, which 
reminded him of his child’s boyhood and of Flora. 

He often pressed his bearded lips to the invalid’s 
burning forehead or limp hand, and when the physician 
with an anxious face had left the house, he knelt beside 
Ulrich’s couch, buried his forehead among the pillows, 
and fervently prayed the Heavenly Father, to spare his 
child and take in exchange his own life and all that he 
possessed. 


ONLY A WORD. 


34 1 


He often thought the end had come, and gave him- 
self up without resistance to his grief; Ruth, on the 
contrary, never lost hope, not even in the darkest hours. 
God had not let her find Ulrich, merely to take him 
from her again. The end of danger was to her the be- 
ginning of deliverance. When he recognized her the 
first time, she already saw him, leaning on her shoulder, 
walk through the room ; when he could raise himself, she 
thought him cured. 

Her heart was overflowing with joy, yet her mind 
remained watchful and thoughtful during the long, 
toilsome nursing. She did not forget the smallest trifle, 
for before she undertook anything she saw in her mind 
every detail involved, as if it were already completed. 

Ulrich took no food which she had not prepared 
with her own hand, no drink which she had not herself 
brought from the cellar or the well. She perceived in 
advance what disturbed him, what pleased him, what 
he needed. If she opened or closed the curtain, she 
gave or withheld no more light than was agreeable to 
him ; if she arranged the pillows behind him, she placed 
them neither too high nor too low, and bound up his 
wounds with a gentle yet firm hand, like an experienced 
physician. Whatever he felt — pain or comfort — she 
experienced with him. 

By degrees the fever vanished; consciousness re- 
turned, his pain lessened, he could move himself again, 
and began to feel stronger. At first he did not know 
where he was ; then he recognized Ruth, and then his 
father. 

How still, how dusky, how clean everything that 
surrounded him was ! Delightful repose stole over him, 
pleasant weariness soothed every stormy emotion of his 


342 


k WORD, 


heart. Whenever he opened his eyes, tender, anxious 
glances met him. Even when the pain returned, he 
enjoyed peaceful, consoling mental happiness. Ruth felt 
this also, and regarded it as a peerless reward. 

When she entered the sick-room with fresh linen, and 
the odor of lavender her dead mother had liked floated 
softly to him from the clean sheets, he thought his boyhood 
had returned, and with it the wise, friendly doctor’s house. 
Elizabeth, the shady pine-woods of his home, its mur- 
muring brooks and luxuriant meadows, again rose before 
his mind; he saw Ruth and himself listening to the birds, 
picking berries, gathering flowers, and beseeching beau- 
tiful gifts from the “ word.” His father appeared even 
more kind, affectionate, and careful than in those days. 
The man became the boy again, and all his former good 
traits of character now sprang up freshly under the 
bright light and vivifying dew of love. 

He received Ruth’s unwearied attentions with ardent 
gratitude, and when he gazed into her faithful eyes, 
when her hand touched him, her soft, deep voice pene- 
trated the depths of his soul, an unexampled sense of 
happiness filled his breast. 

Everything, from the least to the greatest, embraced 
his sdul with the arms of love. It seemed as if the 
ardent yearning of his heart extended far beyond the 
earth, and rose to God, who fills the universe with His 
infinite paternal love. His every breath, Ulrich thought, 
must henceforth be a prayer, a prayer of gratitude to 
Him, who is love itself, the Love, through and in which 
he lived. 

He had sought love, to enjoy its gifts; now he was 
glad to make sacrifices for its sake. He saw how Ruth’s 
beautiful face saddened when he was suffering, and 


ONLY A WORD. 


343 


with manly strength of will concealed inexpressible 
agony under a grateful smile. He feigned sleep, to per- 
mit her and his father to rest, and when tortured by 
feverish restlessness, lay still to give his beloved nurses 
pleasure and repay their solicitude. Love urged him 
to goodness, gave him strength for all that is good. 
His convalescence advanced and, when he was per- 
mitted to leave his bed, his father was the first one to 
support him through the room and down the steps into 
the court-yard. He often felt with quiet emotion the 
old man stroke the hand that rested on his arm, and 
when, exhausted, he returned to the sick-room, he sank 
with a grateful heart into his comfortable seat, casting a 
look of pleasure at the flowers, which Ruth had taken 
from her chamber window and placed on the table 
beside him. 

His family now knew what he had endured and ex- 
perienced, and the smith found a kind, soothing word 
for all that, a few months before, he had considered 
criminal and unpardonable. 

During such a conversation, Ulrich once exclaimed : 

“War! You know not how it bears one along 
with it; it is a game whose stake is life. That ot 
others is of as little value as your own ; to do your 
worst to every one, is the watchword; but now — every 
thing has grown so calm in my soul, and I have a hor- 
ror of the turmoil in the field. I was talking with Ruth 
yesterday about her father, and she reminded me of his 
favorite saying, which I had forgotten long ago. Do 
you know what it is ? c Do unto others, as ye would 
that others should do unto you.’ I have not been cruel, 
and never drew the sword out of pleasure in slaying ; 
but now I grieve for having brought woe to so many ! 


344 


A WORD, 


What things were done in Haarlem ! If you had moved 
there instead of to Antwerp, and you and Ruth ... I 
dare not think of it ! Memories of those days torture 
me in many a sleepless hour, and there is much that fills 
me with bitter remorse. But I am permitted to live, 
and it seems as if I were new-born, and henceforth exist- 
ence and doing good must be synonymous to me. You 
were right to be angry . . 

“ That is all forgiven and forgotten,” interrupted the 
smith in a resonant voice, pressing his son’s fingers with 
his hard right hand. 

These words affected the convalescent like a strength- 
ening potion, and when the hammers again moved in 
the smithy, Ulrich was no longer satisfied with his idle 
life, and began with Ruth to look forward to and dis- 
cuss the future. 

“ The words : * fortune,’ ‘ fame/ ‘ power,’ ” he said 
once, “have deceived me; but art! You don’t know, 
Ruth, what art is ! It does not bestow everything, but 
a great deal, a great deal. Meister Moor was indeed a 
teacher! I am too old to begin at the beginning once 
more. If it were not for that . . 

“ Well, Ulrich ? ” 

“ I should like to try painting again.” 

The girl exhorted him to take courage, and told his 
father of their conversation. The smith put on his Sun- 
day clothes and went to the artist’s house. The latter 
was in Brussels, but was expected home soon. 

From this time, every third day, Adam donned his 
best clothes, which he disliked to wear, and went to the 
artist’s.; but always in vain. 

In the month of February the invalid was playing 
chess with Ruth, — she had learned the game from the 


ONLY A WORD. 


345 


smith and CJlrich from her, — when Adam entered the 
room, saying : “ when the game is over, I wish to speak 
to you, my son.” 

The young girl had the advantage, but instantly 
pushed the pieces together and left the two alone. 

She well knew what was passing in the father’s mind, 
for the day before he had brought all sorts of artist’s 
materials, and told her to arrange the little gable-room, 
with the large window facing towards the north, and 
put the easel and colors there. They had only smiled 
at each other, but they had long since learned to under- 
stand each other, even without words. 

“ What is it ? ” asked Ulrich in surprise. 

The smith then told him what he had provided and 
arranged, adding : “ the picture on the standard — you 
say you painted it yourself.” 

“ Yes, father.” 

“ It was your mother, exactly as she looked when . . . 
She did not treat either of us rightly — but she ! — the 
Christian must forgive ; — and as she was your mother — 
why — I should like . . . perhaps it is not possible ; but 
if you could paint her picture, not as a Madonna, only 
as she looked when a young wife. . . ” 

“ I can, I will ! ” cried Ulrich, in joyous excitement. 
“ Take me upstairs, is the canvas ready ? ” 

“ In the frame, firmly in the frame ! I am an old 
man, and you see, child, I remember how wonderfully 
sweet your mother was ; but I can never succeed in re- 
calling just how she looked then. I have tried, tried 
thousands and thousands of times ; at Richtberg, here, 
everywhere — deep as was my wrath ! ” 

“You shall see her again surely-— surely ! ” inter- 


34 ^ 


A WORD, 


rupted Ulrich. “ I see her before me, and what I see in 
my mind, I can paint ! ” 

The work was commenced the very same day. Ul- 
rich now succeeded wonderfully, and lavished on the 
portrait all the wealth of love, with which his heart was 
filled. 

Never had he guided the brush so joyously; in paint- 
ing this picture he only wished to give, to give — give his 
beloved father the best he could accomplish, so he suc- 
ceeded. 

The young wife, attired in a burgher dress, stood 
with her bewitching eyes and a melancholy, half-tender, 
half-mournful smile on her lips. 

Adam was not permitted to enter the studio again 
until the portrait was completed. When Ulrich at last 
unveiled the picture, the old man — unable longer to con- 
trol himself — burst into loud sobs and fell upon his 
son’s breast. It seemed to Adam that the pretty crea- 
ture in the golden frame — far from needing his forgive- 
ness — was entitled to his gratitude for many blissful 
hours. 

Soon after, Adam found Moor at home, and a few 
hours later took Ulrich to him. It was a happy and a 
quiet meeting, which was soon followed by a second in- 
terview in the smith’s house. 

Moor gazed long and searchingly at Ulrich’s work. 
When he had examined it sufficiently, he held out his 
hand to his pupil, saying warmly : 

“ I always said so ; you are an artist ! From to-mor- 
row we will work together again, daily, and you will win 
more glorious victories with the brush than with the 
sword.” 

Ulrich’s cheeks glowed with happiness and pride. 


ONLY, A WORD. 


347 


Ruth had never before seen him look so, and as she 
gazed joyfully into his eyes* he held out his hands to her, 
exclaiming : “An artist, an artist again ! Oh, would that 
1 had always remained one ! Now I lack only one 
thing more — yourself ! ” 

She rushed to his embrace, exclaiming joyously : 
“ Yours, yours ! I have always been so, and always shall 
be, to-day, to-morrow, unto death, forever and ever ! ” 

“ Yes, yes,” he answered gravely. “ Our hearts are 
one and ever will be, nothing can separate them ; but 
your fate shall not be linked to mine till, Moor himself 
calls me a master. Love imposes no condition — I am 
yours and you are mine — but I impose the trial on my- 
self, and this time I know it will be passed.” 

A new spirit animated the pupil. He rushed to his 
work with tireless energy, and even the hardest task be- 
came easy, when he thought of the prize he sought. At 
the end of a year, Moor ceased to instruct him, and 
Ruth became the wife of Meister Ulrich Schwab. 

The famous artist-guild of Antwerp soon proudly 
numbered him among them, and even at the present 
day his pictures are highly esteemed by connoisseurs, 
though they are attributed to other painters, for he never 
signed his name to his works. 

Of the four words, which illumined his life-path as 
guiding-stars, he had learned to value fame and. power 
least ; fortune and art remained faithful to him, but as 
the earth does not shine by its own might, but receives 
its light from the sun, so they obtained brilliancy, charm 
and endearing power through love. 

The fierce Eletto, whose sword raged in war, fol- 
lowing the teachings of his noble Master, became a 
truly Christian philanthropist. 

23 


34 s 


A WORD, 


Many have gazed with quiet delight at the magnifi- 
cent picture, which represents a beautiful mother, with a 
bright, intelligent face, leading her three blooming chil- 
dren towards a pleasant old man, who holds out his 
arms to them. The old man is Adam, the mother Ruth, 
the children are the armorer’s grandchildren ; Ulrich 
Schwab was the artist. 

Meister Moor died soon after Ulrich’s marriage, and 
a few years after, Sophonisba di Moncada came to Ant- 
werp to seek the grave of him she had loved. She 
knew from the dead man that he had met his dear 
Madrid pupil, and her first visit was to the latter. 

After looking at his works, she exclaimed : 

“ The word ! Do you remember, Meister ? I told 
you then, that you had found the right one. You are 
greatly altered, and it is a pity that you have lost your 
flowing locks ; but you look like a happy man, and to 
what do you owe it ? To the word, the only right 
word : ‘ Art !’ ” 

He let her finish the sentence, then answered gravely : 

“ There is still a loftier word, noble lady ! Who- 
ever owns it — is rich indeed. He will no longer 
wander — seek in doubt. 

“ And this is ? ” she asked incredulously, with a 
smile of superior knowledge. 

“ I have found it,” he answered firmly. “ It is : 
‘ Love.’ ” 

Sophonisba bent her head, saying softly and sadly : 
“yes, yes — love.” 


THE END. 


GEORG EBERS 

t# 

THE BURGOMASTER’S 
WIFE 



THE HISTORICAL ROMANCES OF 
GEORG EBERS 


The 

Burgomaster’s Wife 

. '■ ... V..-V :.T. H Vil 

Translated from the German by 
Mary J* Safford 


POPULAR UNIFORM EDITION 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
New York and London 
\ 9\5 








MOO'* 




Copyright, 1882, 

By WILLIAM S. GOTTSBERGER. 


Authorized Edition . 


*«*•.* , > C . 


' 


Printed in the United States of America 


r ) ■ y 


BARONESS SOPHIE VON BRANDENSTEIN, 
nee Ebers. 

My reason for dedicating a book, and particularly 
this book, to you, the only sister of my dead father, 
needs no word of explanation between us. From early 
childhood you have been a dear and faithful friend to 
me, and certainly have not forgotten how industriously 
I labored, while your guest seventeen years ago, in ar- 
ranging the material which constitutes the foundation of 
the “ Burgomaster’s Wife.” You then took a friendly 
interest in many a note of facts, that had seemed to me 
extraordinary, admirable, or amusing, and when the 
claims of an arduous profession prevented me from pur- 
suing my favorite occupation of studying the history of 
Holland, my mother’s home, in the old way, never 
wearied of reminding me of the fallow material, that had 
previously awakened your sympathy. 

At last I have been permitted to give the matter so 
long laid aside its just dues. A beautiful portion of 
Holland’s glorious history affords the espalier, around 
which the tendrils of my narrative entwine. You have 
watched them grow, and therefore will view them kindly 
and indulgently. 

In love and friendship, 

Ever the same, 

Georg Ebers 


Leipsic, Oct. 30th, 1881. 


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THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


CHAPTER I. 

In the year 1574 A. D. spring made its joyous entry 
into the Netherlands at an unusually early date. 

The sky was blue, gnats sported in the sunshine, 
white butterflies alighted on the newly-opened yellow 
flowers, and beside one of the numerous ditches inter- 
secting the wide plain stood a stork, snapping at a fine 
frog; the poor fellow soon writhed in its enemy’s red beak. 
One gulp — the merry jumper vanished, and its murderer, 
flapping its wings, soared high into the air. On flew 
the bird over gardens filled with blossoming fruit-trees, 
trimly laid-out flower-beds, and gaily-painted arbors, 
across the frowning circlet of walls and towers that 
girdled the city, over narrow houses with high, pointed 
gables, and neat streets bordered with elm, poplar, lin- 
den and willow-trees, decked with the first green leaves 
of spring. At last it alighted on a lofty gable-roof, on 
whose ridge was its firmly-fastened nest. After gen- 
erously giving up its prey to the little wife brooding 
over the eggs, it -stood on one leg and gazed thought- 
fully down upon the city, whose shining red tiles 
gleamed spick and span from the green velvet carpet of 
the meadows. The bird had known beautiful Leyden, 
the gem of Holland, for many a year, and was familiar 
with all the branches of the Rhine that divided the 


2 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


stately city into numerous islands, and over which 
arched as many stone bridges as there are days in five 
months of the year; but surely many changes had oc- 
curred here since the stork’s last departure for the south, 

Where were the citizens’ gay summer-houses and 
orchards, where the wooden frames on which the 
weavers used to stretch their dark and colored cloths? 

Whatever plant or work of human hands had risen, 
outside the city walls and towers to the height of a man’s 
breast, thus interrupting the uniformity of the plain, 
had vanished from the earth, and beyond, on the bird’s 
best hunting-grounds, brownish spots sown with black 
circles appeared among the green of the meadows. 

Late in October of the preceding year, just after the 
storks left the country, a Spanish army had encamped 
here, and a few hours before the return of the winged 
wanderers in the first opening days of spring, the be- 
siegers retired without having accomplished their pur- 
pose. 

Barren spots amid the luxuriant growth of vegeta- 
tion marked the places where they had pitched their tents, 
the black cinders of the burnt coals their camp-fires. 

The sorely- threatened inhabitants of the rescued city, 
with thankful hearts, uttered sighs of relief. The in- 
dustrious, volatile populace had speedily forgotten the 
sufferings endured, for early spring is so beautiful, and 
never does a rescued life seem so delicious as when we 
are surrounded by the joys of spring. 

A new and happier time appeared to have dawned, 
not only for Nature but for human beings. The troops 
quartered in the besieged city, which had the day before 
committed many an annoyance, had been dismissed 
with song and music. The carpenter’s axe flashed in the 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


3 


spring sunlight before the red walls, towers and gates, and 
cut sharply into the beams from which new scaffolds and 
frames were to be erected ; noble cattle grazed peace- 
fully undisturbed around the city, whose desolated gar- 
dens were being dug, sowed and planted afresh. In the 
streets and houses a thousand hands, which but a short 
time before had guided spears and arquebuses on the 
walls and towers, were busy at useful work, and old 
people sat quietly before their doors to let the warm 
spring sun shine on their backs. 

Few discontented faces were to be seen in Leyden 
on this eighteenth of April. True, there was no lack of 
impatient ones, and whoever wanted to seek them need 
only go to the principal school, where noon was ap- 
proaching and many boys gazed far more eagerly 
through the open windows of the school-room, than at 
the teacher’s lips. 

But in that part of the spacious hall where the older 
lads received instruction, no restlessness prevailed. 
True, the spring sun shone on their books and exercises 
too, the spring called them into the open air, but even 
more powerful than its alluring voice seemed the influ- 
ence exerted on their young minds by what they were 
now hearing. 

Forty sparkling eyes were turned towards the 
bearded man, who addressed them in his deep voice. 

Even wild Jan Mulder had dropped the knife with 
which he had begun to cut on his desk a well-executed 
figure of a ham, and was listening attentively. 

The noon bell now rang from the neighboring 
church, and soon after was heard from the tower of the 
town-hall, the little boys noisily left the room, but — 
strange — the patience of the older ones still held out \ 


4 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


they- were surely hearing things that did not exactly be- 
long to their lessons. 

The man who stood before them was no teacher in 
the school, but the city clerk, Van Hout, who, to-day 
filled the place of his sick friend, Verstroot, master of 
arts and preacher. During the ringing of the bells he 
had closed the book, and now said : 

“ Suspendo lectionem. Jan Mulder, how would you 
translate my * suspetidere ' ? ” 

“ Hang,” replied the boy. 

“ Hang!” laughed Van Hout. “ You might be hung 
from a hook perhaps, but where should we hang a les- 
son ? Adrian Van der Werff.” 

The lad called rose quickly, saying : 

“ ‘ Suspenders lectionem ' means to break off the 
lesson.” 

“Very well; and if we wanted to hang up Jan 
Mulder, what should we say?” 

“ Patibulare — ad patibulum /” cried the scholars. 

Van Hout, who had just been smiling, grew very 
grave. Drawing a long breath, he said : 

“ Patibulo is a bad Latin word, and your fathers, 
who formerly sat here, understood its meaning far less 
thoroughly than you. Now, every child in the Nether- 
lands knows it, Alva has impressed it on our minds. 
More than eighteen thousand worthy citizens have come 
to the gallows through his 1 ad patibulum.'” 

With these words he pulled his short black doublet 
through his girdle, advanced nearer the first desk, and 
bending his muscular body forward, said with constantly 
increasing emotion : 

“This shall be enough for to-day, boys. It will do 
no great harm, if you afterwards forget the names 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


5 


earned here. But always remember one thing: your 
country first of all. Leonidas and his three hundred 
Spartans did not die in vain, so long as there are men 
ready to follow their example. Your turn will come 
too. It is not my business to boast, but truth is truth. 
We Hollanders have furnished fifty times three hundred 
men for the freedom of our native soil. In such stormy 
times there are steadfast men ; even boys have shown 
themselves great. Ulrich yonder, at your head, can 
bear his nickname of Lowing with honor. ‘ Hither 
Persians — hither Greeks !’ was said in ancient times, but 
we cry: ‘Hither Netherlands, hither Spain!’ And in- 
deed, the proud Darius never ravaged Greece as King 
Philip has devastated Holland. Ay, my lads, many 
flowers bloom in the breasts of men. Among them 
is hatred of the poisonous hemlock. Spain has 
sowed it in our gardens. I feel it growing within me. 
and you too feel and ought to feel it. But don’t mis- 
understand me! ‘Hither Spain — hither Netherlands!’ is 
the cry, and not: ‘ Hither Catholics and hither Protes- 
tants.’ Every faith may be right in the Lord’s eyes, if only 
the man strives earnestly to walk in Christ’s ways. At 
the throne of Heaven, it will not be asked : Are you 
Papist, Calvinist, or Lutheran ? but : What were your 
intentions and acts ? Respect every man’s belief ; but 
despise him who makes common cause with the tyrant 
against the liberty of our native land. Now pray 
silently, then you may go home.” 

The scholars rose; Van Hout wiped the perspira- 
tion from his high forehead, and while the boys were 
collecting books, pencils, and pens, said slowly, as if 
apologizing to himself for the words already uttered : 

“ What I have told you perhaps does not belong to 


6 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


the school-room; but, my lads, this battle is still far 
from being ended, and though you must occupy the 
school-benches for a while, you are the future soldiers. 
Lowing, remain behind, I have something to say to 
you.” 

He slowly turned his back to the boys, who rushed 
out of doors. In a corner of the yard of St. Peter’s 
church, which was behind the building and entered by 
few of the passers-by, they stood still, and from amid 
the wild confusion of exclamations arose a sort of con- 
sultation, to which the organ-notes echoing from the 
church formed a strange accompaniment. 

They were trying to decide upon the game to be 
played in the afternoon. 

It was a matter of course, after what Van Hout had 
said, that there should be a battle; it had not even 
been proposed by anybody, but the discussion that now 
arose proceeded from the supposition. 

It was soon decided that patriots and Spaniards, not 
Greeks and Persians, were to appear in the lists against 
each other; but when the burgomaster’s son, Adrian 
Van der Werfif, a lad of fourteen, proposed to form the 
two parties, and in the imperious way peculiar to him 
attempted to make Paul Van Swieten and Claus Dirkson 
Spaniards, he encountered violent opposition, and the 
troublesome circumstance was discovered that no one 
was willing to represent a foreign soldier. 

Each boy wanted to make somebody else a Cas- 
tilian, and fight himself under the banner of the Nether- 
lands. But friends and foes are necessary for a war, and 
Holland’s heroic courage required Spaniards to prove 
it. The youngsters grew excited, the cheeks of the dis- 
putants began to flush, here and there clenched fists 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


7 


were raised, and everything indicated that a horrible 
civil war would precede the battle to be given the foes 
of the country. 

In truth, these lively boys were ill-suited to play the 
part of King Philip’s gloomy, stiff-necked soldiers. 
Amid the many fair heads, few lads were seen with 
brown locks, and only one with black hair and dark 
eyes. This was Adam Baersdorp, whose father, like Van 
der Werff’s, was one of the leaders of the citizens. When 
he too refused to act a Spaniard, one of the boys ex- 
claimed : 

“ You'won’t ? Yet my father says your father is half 
a Clipper,* and a whole Papist to boot.” 

At these words young Baersdorp threw his books on 
the ground, and was rushing with upraised fist upon his 
enemy — but Adrian Van der Werff hastily interposed, 
crying : 

“ For shame, Cornelius. — I’ll stop the mouth of any- 
body who utters such an insult again. Catholics are 
Christians, as well as we. You heard it from Van Hout, 
and my father says so too. Will you be a Spaniard, 
Adam, yes or no ?” 

“No!” cried the latter firmly. “ And if anybody 
else — ” 

“You can quarrel afterward,” said Adrian Van der 
Werff, interrupting his excited companions, then good- 
naturedly picking up the books Baersdorp had flung 
down, and handing them to him, continued resolutely : 
“ I’ll be a Spaniard to-day. Who else ?” 

“ I, I, I too, for aught I care,” shouted several of 
the scholars, and the forming of the two parties would 

” The name given in Holland to those who sympathized with 
Spain. 


8 


THE EURGOMASTER $ WIFE. 


have been carried on in the best order to the end, if 
the boys’ attention had not been diverted by a fresh 
incident. 

A young gentleman, followed by a black servant, 
came up the street directly towards them. He too was 
a Netherlander, but had little in common with the 
school-boys except his age, a red and white complexion, 
fair hair, and clear blue eyes, eyes that looked arro- 
gantly out upon the world. Every step showed that he 
considered himself an important personage, and the 
gaily-costumed negro, who carried a few recently pur- 
chased articles behind him, imitated this bearing in a 
most comical way. The negro’s head was held still 
farther back than the young noble’s, whose stiff Spanish 
ruff prevented him from moving his handsome head as 
freely as other mortals. 

“ That ape, Wibisma,” said one of the school-boys, 
pointing to the approaching nobleman. 

All eyes turned towards him, scornfully scanning his 
little velvet hat decked with a long plume, the quilted 
red satin garment padded in the breast and sleeves, the 
huge puffs of his short brown breeches, and the brilliant 
scarlet silk stockings that closely fitted his well-formed 
limbs. 

“ The ape,” repeated Paul Van Swieten. “ He wants 
to be a cardinal, that’s why he wears so much red.” 

“And looks as Spanish as if he came straight from 
Madrid,” cried another lad, while a third added : 

“The Wibismas certainly were not to be found 
here, so long as bread was short with us.” 

The Wibismas are all Glippers. 

“ And he struts about on week-days, dressed in 
velvet and silk,” said Adrian. “Just look at the black 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


9 


boy the red-legged stork has brought with him to 
Leyden.” 

The scholars burst into a loud laugh, and as soon 
as the youth had reached them, Paul Van Swieten 
snarled in a nasal tone : 

“ How did deserting suit you ? How are affairs in 
Spain, master Glipper ?” 

The young noble raised his head still higher, the 
negro did the same, and both walked quietly on, even 
when Adrian shouted in his ear : 

“ Little Glipper, tell me, for how many pieces of 
silver did Judas sell the Saviour?” 

Young Matanesse Van Wibisma made an indignant 
gesture, but controlled himself until Jan Mulder stepped 
in front of him, holding his little cloth cap, into which 
he had thrust a hen’s feather, under his chin like a beg- 
gar, and saying humbly : 

“ Give me a little shrove-money for our tom-cat, Sir 
Grandee ; he stole a leg of veal from the butcher yes- 
terday.” 

“ Out of my way !” said the youth in a haughty, 
resolute tone, trying to push Mulder aside with the 
back of his hand. 

“ Hands off, Glipper!” cried the school-boys, raising 
their clenched hands threateningly. 

“Then let me alone,” replied Wibisma, “I want no 
quarrel, least of all with you.” 

“ Why not with us ?” asked Adrian Van der Werff, 
irritated by the supercilious, arrogant tone of the last 
w’ords. 

The youth shrugged his shoulders, but Adrian cried : 

“ Because you like your Spanish costume better than 
our doublets of Leyden cloth. ” 

24 


10 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


Here he paused, for Jan Mulder stole behind 
Wibisma, struck his hat down on his head with a book, 
and while Nicolas Van Wibisma was trying to free his 
eyes from the covering that shaded them, exclaimed : 

“ There, Sir Grandee, now the little hat sits firm ! 
You can keep it on, even before the king.” 

The negro could not go to his master’s assistance, 
for his arms were filled with parcels, but the young 
noble did not call him, knowing how cowardly his black 
servant was, and feeling strong enough to help him- 
self. 

A costly clasp, which he had just received as a gift 
on his seventeenth birthday, confined the plume in his 
hat; but without a thought he flung it aside, stretched 
out his arms as if for a wrestling-match, and with 
flushed cheeks, asked in a loud, resolute tone : “ Who 

did that ?” 

Jan Mulder had hastily retreated among his com- 
panions, and instead of coming forward and giving his 
name, called : 

“ Look for the hat-fuller, Glipper! We’ll play blind- 
man’s buff.” 

The youth, frantic with rage, repeated his question. 

When, instead of any other answer, the boys entered 
into Jan Mulder’s jest, shouting gaily: “Yes, play 
blind-man’s buff! Look for the hat-fuller. Come, little 
Glipper, begin.” Nicolas could contain himself no 
longer, but shouted furiously to the laughing throng : 

“ Cowardly rabble !” 

Scarcely had the words been uttered, when Paul Van 
Swieten raised his grammar, bound in hog-skin, and 
hurled it at Wibisma’s breast. 

Other books followed, amid loud outcries, striking 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


1 1 

him on the legs and shoulders. Bewildered, he shielded 
his face with his hands and retreated to the church-yard 
wall, where he stood still and prepared to rush upon his 
foes. 

The stiff, fashionable high Spanish ruff no longer 
confined his handsome head with its floating golden 
locks. Freely and boldly he looked his enemies in the 
face, stretched the young limbs hardened by many a 
knightly exercise, and with a true Netherland oath 
sprang upon Adrian Van der Werff, who stood nearest. 

After a short struggle, the burgomaster’s son, inferior 
in strength and age to his opponent, lay extended on 
the ground; but the other lads, who had not ceased 
shouting, “Glipper, Glipper,” seized the young noble, 
who was kneeling on his vanquished foe. 

Nicolas struggled bravely, but his enemies’ superior 
power was too great. 

Frantic with fury, wild with rage and shame, he 
snatched the dagger from his belt. 

The boys now raised a frightful yell, and two of 
them rushed upon Nicolas to wrest the weapon from 
him. This was quickly accomplished ; the dagger flew 
on the pavement, but Van Swieten sprang back with a 
low cry, for the sharp blade had struck his arm, and the 
bright blood streamed on the ground. 

For several minutes the shouts of the lads and the 
piteous cries of the black page drowned the beautiful 
melody of the organ, pouring from the windows of the 
church. Suddenly the music ceased ; instead of the in- 
tricate harmony the slowly-dying note of a single pipe 
was heard, and a young man rushed out of the door of 
the sacristy of the House of God. He quickly per- 
ceived the' cause of the wild uproar that had interrupted 

A 


12 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


his practising, and a smile flitted over the handsome 
face which, framed by a closely-cut beard, had just 
looked startled enough, though the reproving words 
and pushes with which he separated the eiiraged lads 
were earnest enough, and by no means failed to produce 
their effect. 

The boys knew the musician, Wilhelm Corneliussohn, 
and offered no resistance, for they liked him, and his 
dozen years of seniority gave him an undisputed 
authority among them. Not a hand was again raised 
against Wibisma, but the boys, all shouting and talking 
together, crowded around the organist to accuse Nic- 
olas and defend themselves. 

Paul Van Swieten’s wound was slight. He stood 
outside the circle of his companions, supporting the 
injured left arm with his right hand. He frequently 
blew upon the burning spot in his flesh, over which a 
bit of cloth was wrapped, but curiosity concerning the 
result of this entertaining brawl was stronger than the 
wish to have it bandaged and healed. 

As the peace-maker’s work was already drawing to a 
close, the wounded lad, pointing with his sound hand in 
the direction of the school, suddenly called warningly: 

“ There comes Herr von Nordwyk. Let the Glipper 
go, or there will be trouble.” 

Paul Van Swieten again clasped his wounded arm 
with his right hand and ran swiftly around the church. 
Several other boys followed, but the new-comer of whom 
they were afraid, a man scarcely thirty years old, had 
legs of considerable length, and knew how to use them 
bravely. 

“Stop, boys!” he shouted in an echoing voice of 
command. “ Stop ! What has happened here ?” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


13 


Every one in Leyden respected the learned and 
• brave young nobleman, so all the lads who had not 
instantly obeyed Van Swieten’s warning shout, stood 
still until Herr von Nordwyk reached them. 

A strange, eager light sparkled in this man’s clever 
eyes, and a subtle smile hovered around his moustached 
lip, as he called to the musician : 

“ What has happened here, Meister Wilhelm ? 
Didn’t the clamor of Minerva’s apprentices harmonize 
with your organ-playing, or did — but by all the colors 
of Iris, that’s surely Nico Matanesse, young Wibisma! 
And how he looks ! Brawling in the shadow of the 
church — and you here too, Adrian, and you, Meister 
Wilhelm?” 

“ I separated them,” replied the other quietly, 
smoothing his rumpled cuffs. 

“ With perfect calmness, but impressively — like 
your organ-music,” said the commander, laughing. 
‘‘Who began the fight? You, young sir? or the 
others ? ” 

Nicolas, in his excitement, shame, and indignation, 
could find no coherent words, but Adrian came forward 
saying : “ We wrestled together. Don’t be too much 
vexed with us, Herr Janus.” 

Nicolas cast a friendly glance at his foe. 

Herr von Nordwyk, Jan Van der Does, or as a 
learned man he preferred to call himself, Janus Dousa, 
was by no means satisfied with this information, but 
exclaimed : 

“Patience, patience! You look suspicious enough, 
Meister Adrian; come here and tell me, ‘ atrekeos ac- 
cording to the truth, what has been going on.” 

The boy obeyed the command and told his story 


U 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


honestly, without concealing or palliating anything that 
had occurred. 

“ Hm,” said Dousa, after the lad had finished his 
report. “A difficult case. No one is to be acquitted. 
Your cause would be the better one, had it not been for 
the knife, my fine young nobleman, but you, Adrian, 
and you, you chubby-cheeked rascals, who — There 
comes the rector— If he catches you, you’ll certainly 
see nothing but four walls the rest of this beautiful day. 
I should be sorry for that.” 

The chubby -cheeked rascals, and Adrian also, under- 
stood this hint, and without stopping to take leave 
scampered around the corner of the church like a flock 
of doves pursued by a hawk. 

As soon as they had vanished, the commander ap- 
proached young Nicolas, saying: 

“Vexatious business! What was right to them is 
just to you. Go to your home. Are you visiting your 
aunt ?” 

“Yes, my lord,” replied the young noble. 

“ Is your father in the city too ?” 

Nicolas was silent. 

“ He doesn’t wish to be seen ?” 

Nicolas nodded assent, and Dousa continued : 

“Leyden stands open to every Netherlander, even 
to you. To be sure, if you go about like King Philip’s 
page, and show contempt to your equals, you must en- 
dure the consequences yourself. There lies the dagger, 
my young friend, and there is your hat. Pick them 
up, and remember that such a weapon is no toy. Many 
a man has spoiled his whole life, by thoughtlessly 
using one a single moment. The superior numbers 
that pressed upon you may excuse you. But how 


THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE. 1 5 

will you get to your aunt’s house in that tattered 
doublet ?” 

“ My cloak is in the church,” said the musician, “ I’ll 
give it to the young gentleman.” 

“ Bravo, Meister Wilhelm !” replied Dousa. “ Wait 
here, my little master, and then go home. I wish the 
time, when your father would value my greeting, might 
come again. Do you know why it is no longer pleasant 
to him ?” 

“ No, my lord.” 

“ Then I’ll tell you. Because he is fond of Spain, 
and I cling to the Netherlands.” 

“ We are Netherlanders as well as you,” replied 
Nicolas with glowing cheeks. 

“ Scarcely,” answered Dousa calmly, putting his 
hand up to his thin chin, and intending to add a kinder 
word to the sharp one, when the youth vehemently ex- 
claimed : 

“Take back that ‘scarcely,’ Herr von Nordwyk.” 

Dousa gazed at the bold lad in surprise, and again 
an expression of amusement hovered about his lips. 
Then he said kindly : 

“ I like you, Herr Nicolas; and shall rejoice if you 
wish to become a true Hollander. There comes Meister 
Wilhelm with his cloak. Give me your hand. No, not 
this one, the other.” 

Nicolas hesitated, but Janus grasped the boy’s right 
hand in both of his, bent his tall figure to the latter’s 
ear, and said in so low a tone that the musician could 
not understand : 

“ Ere we part, take with you this word of counsel 
from one who means kindly. Chains, even golden ones, 
drag us down, but liberty gives wings. You shine in 


i6 


THE BURGOMASTERS WIFE. 


the glittering splendor, but we strike the Spanish chains 
with the sword, and I devote myself to our work. 
Remember these words, and if you choose repeat them 
to your father.” 

Janus Dousa turned his back on the boy, waved a 
farewell to the musician, and went away. 


CHAPTER II. 

Young Adrian hurried down the Werffsteg, which 
had given his family its name. He heeded neither the 
lindens on both sides, amid whose tops the first tiny 
green leaves were forcing their way out of the pointed 
buds, nor the birds that flew hither and thither among 
the hospitable boughs of the stately trees, building their 
nests and twittering to each other, for he had no thought 
in his mind except to reach home as quickly as possible. 

Beyond the bridge spanning the Achtergracht, he 
paused irresolutely before a large building. 

The knocker hung on the central door, but he did 
not venture to lift it and let it fall on the shining plate 
beneath, for he could expect no pleasant reception from 
his family. 

His doublet had fared ill during his struggle with his 
stronger enemy. The torn neck-ruffles had been re- 
moved from their proper place and thrust into his 
pocket, and the new violet stocking on his right leg, 
luckless thing, had been so frayed by rubbing on the 
pavement, that a large yawning rent showed far more of 
Adrian’s white knee than was agreeable to him. 

The peacock feather in his little velvet cap could 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


*7 


easily be replaced, but the doublet was torn, not ripped, 
and the stocking scarcely capable of being mended. 

The boy was sincerely sorry, for his father had bade 
him take good care of the stuff to save money ; during 
these times there were hard shifts in the big house, 
which with its three doors, triple gables adorned with 
beautifully-arched volutes, and six windows in the upper 
and lower stories, fronted the Werffsteg in a very proud, 
stately guise. 

The burgomaster’s office did not bring in a large in- 
come, and Adrian’s grandfather’s trade of preparing 
chamois leather, as well as the business in skins, was 
falling off ; his father had other matters in his head, 
matters that claimed not only his intellect, strength and 
time, but also every superfluous farthing. 

Adrian had nothing pleasant to expect at home — 
certainly not from his father, far less from his aunt 
Barbara. Yet the boy dreaded the anger of these two 
far less, than a single disapproving glance from the eyes of 
the young wife, whom he had called “ mother” scarcely 
a twelve month, and who was only six years his senior. 

She never said an unkind word to him, but his de- 
fiance and wildness melted before her beauty, her quiet, 
aristocratic manner. He scarcely knew himself whether 
he loved her or not, but she appeared like the good fairy 
of whom the fairy tales spoke, and it often seemed as if 
she were far too delicate, dainty and charming for her 
simple, unpretending home. To see her smile rendered 
the boy happy, and when she looked sad — a thing that 
often happened — it made his heart ache. Merciful 
Heavens ! She certainly could not receive him kindly 
when she saw his doublet, the ruffles thrust into his 
pocket, and his unlucky stockings. 


i8 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE, 


And then ! 

There were the bells ringing again ! 

The dinner hour had long since passed, and his 
father waited for no one. Whoever came too late must go 
without, unless Aunt Barbara took compassion on him 
in the kitchen. 

But what was the use of pondering and hesitating ? 

Adrian summoned up all his courage, clenched his 
teeth, clasped his right' hand still closer around the 
torn ruffles in his pocket, and struck the knocker loudly 
on the steel plate beneath. 

Trautchen, the old maid-servant, opened the door, 
and in the spacious, dusky entrance-hall, where the bales 
of leather were packed closely together, did not notice 
the dilapidation of his outer man. 

He hurried swiftly up the stairs. 

The dining-room door was open, and — marvellous 
— the table was still untouched, his father must have 
remained at the town-hall longer than usual. 

Adrian rushed with long leaps to his little attic room, 
dressed himself neatly, and entered the presence of his 
family before the master of the house had asked the 
blessing. 

The doublet and stocking could be confided to the 
hands of Aunt Barbara or Trautchen, at some opportune 
hour. 

Adrian sturdily attacked the smoking dishes; but 
his heart soon grew heavy, for his father did not utter a 
word, and gazed into vacancy as gravely and anxiously 
as at the time when misery entered the beleagured city. 

The boy’s young step-mother sat opposite her hus- 
band, and often glanced at Peter Van der Werff’s grave 
face to win a loving glance from him. 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


9 


Whenever she did so in vain, she pushed her soft, 
golden hair back from her forehead, raised her beautiful 
head higher, or bit her lips and gazed silently into her 
plate. 

In reply to Aunt Barbara’s questions : “ What hap- 
pened at the council ? Has the money for the new bell 
been collected ? Will Jacob Van Sloten rent you the 
meadow ?” he made curt, evasive replies. 

The steadfast man, who sat so silently with frowning 
brow among his family, sometimes attacking the viands 
on his plate, then leaving them untouched, did not look 
like one who yields to idle whims. 

All present, even the men and maid-servants, were 
still devoting themselves to the food, when the master 
of the house rose, and pressing both hands over the 
back of his head, which was very prominently devel- 
oped, exclaimed groaning : 

“ I can hold out no longer. Do you give thanks, 
Maria. Go to the town-hall, Janche, and ask if no 
messenger has yet arrived.” 

The man-servant wiped his mouth and instantly 
obeyed. He was a tall, broad-shouldered Frieselander, 
but only reached to his master’s forehead. 

Peter Van der WerfF, without any form of salutation, 
turned his back on his family, opened the door leading 
into his study, and after crossing the threshold, closed it 
with a bang, approached the big oak writing-desk, on 
which papers and letters lay piled in heaps, secured by 
rough leaden weights, and .began to rummage among 
the newly -arrived documents. For fifteen minutes he 
vainly strove to fix the necessary attention upon his 
task, then grasped his study-chair to rest his folded arms 
on the high, perforated back, adorned with simple carv- 


20 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


ing, and gazed thoughtfully at the wooden wainscoting 
of the ceiling. After a few minutes he pushed the chair 
aside with his foot, raised his hand to his mouth, sep- 
arated his moustache from his thick brown beard, and 
went to the window. The small, round, leaden-cased 
panes, however brightly they might be polished, per- 
mitted only a narrow portion of the street to be seen, 
but the burgomaster seemed to have found the object 
for which he had been looking. Hastily opening the 
window, he called to his servant, who was hurriedly ap- 
proaching the house : 

“ Is he in, Janche ?” 

The Frieselander shook his head, the window again 
closed, and a few minutes after the burgomaster seized 
his hat, which hung, between some cavalry pistols and 
a plain, substantial sword, on the only wall of his room 
not perfectly bare. 

The torturing anxiety that filled his mind, w r ould no 
longer allow him to remain in the house. 

He would have his horse saddled, and ride to meet 
the expected messenger. 

Ere leaving the room, he paused a moment lost in 
thought, then approached the writing-table to sign some 
papers intended for the town-hall ; for his return might 
be delayed till night. 

Still standing, he looked over the two sheets he had 
spread out before him, and seized the pen. Just at that 
moment the door of the room gently opened, and the 
fresh sand strewn over the. white boards creaked under 
a light foot. He doubtless heard it, but did not allow 
himself to be interrupted. 

His wife was now standing close behind him. Four 
and twenty years his junior, she seemed like a timid girl, 


THE BURGOMASTER^ WIFE. 


21 

as she raised her arm, yet did not venture to divert her 
husband’s attention from his business. 

She waited quietly till he had signed the first paper, 
then turned her pretty head aside, and blushing faintly,, 
exclaimed with downcast eyes: 

“It is I, Peter!” 

“Very well, my child,” he answered curtly, raising 
the second paper nearer his eyes. 

“Peter!” she exclaimed a second time, still more 
eagerly, but with timidity. “ I have something to tell 
you.” 

Van der Werff turned his head, cast a hasty, affec- 
tionate glance at her, and said: 

“Now, child? You see I am busy, and there is my 
hat.” 

“But Peter!” she replied, a flash of something like 
indignation sparkling in her eyes, as she continued in a 
voice pervaded with a slightly perceptible tone of com- 
plaint: “ We haven’t said anything to each other to-day. 
My heart is so full, and what I would fain say to you is, 
must surely — ” 

“When I come home Maria, not now,” he inter- 
rupted, his deep voice sounding half impatient, half 
beseeching. “ First the city and the country — then 
love-making.” 

At these words, Maria raised her head proudly, and 
answered with quivering lips: 

“ That is what you have said ever since the first day 
of our marriage.” 

“And unhappily — unhappily — I must continue to 
say so until we reach the goal,” he answered firmly. 

The blood mounted into the young wife’s delicate 


22 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIRE. 


cheeks, and with quickened breathing, she answered in 
a hasty, resolute tone: 

“Yes, indeed, I have known these words ever since 
your courtship, and as I am my father’s daughter never 
opposed them, but now they are no longer suited to us, 
and should be : ‘ Everything for the country, and nothing 
at all for the wife.’ ” 

Van der Werff laid down his pen and turned full 
towards her. 

Maria’s slender figure seemed to have grown taller, 
and the blue eyes, swimming in tears, flashed proudly. 
This life-companion seemed to have been created by 
God especially for him. His heart opened to her, and 
frankly stretching out both hands, he said tenderly: 

“You know how matters are! This heart is change- 
less, and other days will come.” 

“When?” asked Maria, in a tone as mournful as if 
she believed in no happier future. 

“ Soon,” replied her husband firmly. “ Soon, if 
only each one gives willingly what our native land 
demands.” 

At these words the young wife loosed her hands 
from her husband’s, for the door had opened and Bar- 
bara called to her brother from the threshold. 

“ Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma, the Clipper, is in 
the entry and wants to speak to you.” 

“ Show him up,” said the burgomaster reluctantly. 

When again alone with his wife, he asked hastily : 

“ Will you be indulgent and help me ?” 

She nodded assent, trying to smile. 

He saw that she was sad and, as this grieved him, 
held out his hand to her again, saying: 

“ Better days will come, when I shall be permitted 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


23 


to be more to you than to-day. What were you going 
to say just now ?” 

“ Whether you know it or not — is of no importance 
to the state.” 

“ But to you. Then lift up your head again, and 
look at me. Quick, love, for they are already on the 
stairs.” 

“ It isn’t worth mentioning — a year ago to-day — 
we might celebrate the anniversary of our wedding 
to-day.” 

“ The anniversary of our wedding-day !” he cried, 
striking his hands loudly together. “ Yes, this is the 
seventeenth of April, and I have forgotten it.” 

He drew her tenderly towards him, but just at that 
moment the door opened, and Adrian ushered the baron 
into the room. 

Van der Werff bowed courteously to the infrequent 
guest, then called to his blushing wife, who was retiring : 

“ My congratulations ! I’ll come later. Adrian, we 
are to celebrate a beautiful festival to-day, the anniver- 
sary of our marriage.” 

The boy glided swiftly out of the door, which he still 
held in his hand, for he suspected the aristocratic visi- 
tor boded him no good. 

In the entry he paused to think, then hurried up the 
stairs, seized his plumeless cap, and rushed out of doors. 

He saw his school-mates, armed with sticks and poles, 
ranging themselves in battle array, and would have liked 
to join the game of war, but for that very reason pre- 
ferred not to listen to the shouts of the combatants at 
that moment, and ran towards the Zylhof until beyond 
the sound of their voices. 

He now checked his steps, and in a stooping posture, 


24 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


often on his knees, followed the windings of a narrow 
canal that emptied into the Rhine. 

As soon as his cap was overflowing with the white, 
blue, and yellow spring flowers he had gathered, he sat 
down on a boundary stone, and with sparkling eyes 
bound them into a beautiful bouquet, with which he ran 
home. 

On the bench beside the gate sat the old maid-ser- 
vant with his little sister, a child six years old. Hand- 
ing the flowers, which he had kept hidden behind his 
back, to her, he said : 

“ Take them and carry them to mother, Bessie; this 
is the anniversary of her wedding-day. Give her warm 
congratulations too, from us both.” 

The child rose, and the old servant said : 

“You are a good boy, Adrian.” 

“ Do you think so ?” he asked, all the sins of the 
forenoon returning to his mind. 

But unluckily they caused him no repentance ; on 
the contrary, his eyes began to sparkle mischievously, 
and a smile hovered around his lips, as he patted the 
old woman’s shoulder, whispering softly in her ear : 

“The hair flew to-day, Trautchen. My doublet and 
new stockings are lying up in my room under the bed. 
Nobody can mend as well as you.” 

Trautchen shook her finger at him, but he turned 
hastily back and ran towards the Zyl-gate, this time to 
lead the Spaniards against the Netherlanders. 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


25 


CHAPTER III. 

The burgomaster had pressed the nobleman to sit 
down in the study-chair, while he himself leaned in a 
half-sitting attitude on the writing-table, listening some- 
what impatiently to his distinguished guest. 

“Before speaking of more important things,” Herr 
Matanesse Van Wibisma had begun, “I should like to 
appeal to you, as a just man, for some punishment for 
the injury my son has sustained in this city.” 

“Speak,” said the burgomaster, and the nobleman 
now briefly, and with unconcealed indignation, related 
the story of the attack upon his son at the church. 

“I’ll infbrm the rector of the annoying incident,” 
replied Van derWerff, “and the culprits will receive their 
just dues; but pardon me, noble sir, if I ask whether any 
inquiry has been made concerning the cause of the 
quarrel ?” 

Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma looked at the burgo- 
master in surprise and answered proudly: 

“You know my son’s report.” 

“Both sides must be fairly heard,” replied Van der 
Werff calmly. “That has been the custom of the Neth- 
erlands from ancient times.” 

“ My son bears my name and speaks the truth.” 

“Our boys are called simply Leendert or Adrian or 
Gerrit, but they do the same, so I must beg you to send 
the young gentleman to the examination at the school.” 

“ By no means,” answered the knight resolutely. “ If 
I had thought the matter belonged to the rector’s de- 

25 


2 6 


THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE. 


partment, I should have sought him and not you, Herr 
Peter. My son has his own tutor, and was not attacked 
in your school, which in any case he has outgrown, for 
he is seventeen, but in the public street, whose security 
it is the burgomaster’s duty to guard.” 

“Very well then, make your complaint, take the 
youth before the judges, summon witnesses and let the 
law follow its course. But, sir,” continued Van der 
WerfT, softening the impatience in his voice, “were you 
not young yourself once? Have you entirely forgotten 
the fights under the citadel? What pleasure will it 
afford you, if we lock up a few thoughtless lads for two 
days this sunny weather? The scamps will find some- 
thing amusing to do indoors, as well as out, and only 
the parents will be punished.” 

The last words were uttered so cordially and pleas- 
antly, that they could not fail to have their effect upon 
the baron. He was a handsome man, whose refined, 
agreeable features, of the true Netherland type, ex- 
pressed anything rather than severity. 

“ If you speak to me in this tone, we shall come to 
an agreement more easily,” he answered, smiling. “ I 
will only say this. Had the brawl arisen in sport, or 
from some boyish quarrel, I wouldn’t have wasted a word 
on the matter — but that children already venture to as- 
sail with jeers and violence those who hold different 
opinions, ought not to be permitted to pass without re- 
proof. The boys shouted after my son the absurd 
word — ” 

“It is certainly an insult,” interrupted Van der 
Werff, “ a very disagreeable name, that our people be- 
stow on the enemies of their liberty.” 

The baron rose, angrily confronting the other. 


THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE. 


27 


“ Wlio tells you,” he cried, striking his broad breast, 
padded with silken puffs, “ who tells you that we grudge 
Holland her liberty ? We desire, just as earnestly as 
you, to win it back to the States, but by other, straighter 
paths than Orange — ” 

“ I cannot test here whether your paths are crooked 
or straight,” retorted Van der Werff; “but I do know 
this — they are labyrinths.” 

“ They will lead to the heart of Philip, our king and 
yours.” 

“Yes, if he only had what we in Holland call a 
heart,” replied the other, smiling bitterly ; but Wibisma 
threw his head back vehemently, exclaiming reproach- 
fully : 

“ Sir Burgomaster, you are speaking of the anointed 
Prince to whom I have sworn fealty.” 

“ Baron Matanesse,” replied Van der Werff, in a tone 
of deep earnestness, as he drew himself up to his full 
height, folded his arms, and looked the nobleman sharply 
in the eye, “ I speak rather of the tyrant, whose bloody 
council declared all who bore the Netherland name, and 
you among us, criminals worthy of death ; who, through 
his destroying devil, Alva, burned, beheaded, and hung 
thousands of honest men, robbed and exiled from the 
country thousands of others, I speak of the profligate — ” 

“ Enough !” cried the knight, clenching the hilt of his 
sword. “ Who ^ives you the right — ” 

“Who gives me the right to speak so bitterly, you 
would ask?” interrupted Peter Van der Werff, meeting 
the nobleman’s eyes with a gloomy glance. “Who gives 
me this right? I need not conceal it. It was bestowed 
by the silent lips of my valiant father, beheaded for the 
sake of his faith, by the arbitrary decree, that without 


2& THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 

form of law, banished my brother and myself from the 
country — by the Spaniards’ broken vows, the torn char- 
ters of this land, the suffering of the poor, ill-treated, 
worthy people that will perish if we do not save them.” 

“You will not save them,” replied Wibisma in a 
calmer tone. “You will push those tottering on the 
verge of the abyss completely over the precipice, and go 
to destruction with them.” 

“We are pilots. Perhaps we shall bring deliverance, 
perhaps we shall go to ruin with those for whom we are 
ready to die.” 

“You say that, and yet a young, blooming wife binds 
you to life.” 

“Baron, you have crossed this threshold as com- 
plainant to the burgomaster, not as guest or friend.” 

“Quite true, but I came with kind intentions, as 
monitor to the guiding head of this beautiful, hapless 
city. You have escaped the storm once, but new and 
far heavier ones are gathering above your heads.” 

“We do not fear them.” 

“ Not even now?” 

“Now, with good reason, far less than ever.” 

“Then you don’t know the Prince’s brother — ” 

“ Louis of Nassau was close upon the Spaniards on 
the 14th, and our cause is doing well — ” 

“It certainly did not fare ill at first.” 

“The messenger, who yesterday evening — ” 

“Ours came this morning.” 

“This morning, you say? And what more — ” 

“The Prince’s army was defeated and utterly de- 
stroyed on Mook Heath. Louis of Nassau himself was 
slain.” 

Van der Werff pressed his fingers firmly on the wood 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE 1 . 


2 9 


of the writing-table. The fresh color of his cheeks and 
lips had yielded to a livid pallor, and his mouth quiv- 
ered painfully as he asked in a low, hollow tone, “ Louis 
dead, really dead?” 

“ Dead,” replied the baron firmly, though sorrowfully. 
“We were enemies, but Louis was a noble youth. I 
mourn him with you.” 

“Dead, William’s favorite dead!” murmured the bur- 
gomaster as if in a dream. Then, controlling himself by 
a violent effort, he said, firmly: 

“ Pardon me, noble sir. Time is flying. I must go 
to the town-hall.” 

“And spite of my message, you will continue to up* 
hold rebellion ?” 

“Yes, my lord, as surely as I am a Hollander.” 

“ Do you remember the fate of Haarlem ?” 

“ I remember her citizens’ resistance, and the rescued 
Alkmaar.” 

“Man, man!” cried the baron. “By all that is 
sacred, I implore you to be circumspect.” 

“ Enough, baron, I must go to the town-hall.” 

“No, only this one more word, this one word. I 
know you upbraid us as ‘Glippers,’ deserters, but as 
truly as I hope for God’s mercy, you misjudge us. No, 
Herr Peter, no, I am no traitor! I love this country and 
this brave, industrious people with the same love as 
yourself, for its bipod flows in my veins also. I signed 
the compromise. Here I stand, sir. Look at me. Do 
I look like a Judas? Do I look like a Spaniard? Can 
you blame me for faithfully keeping the oath I gave the 
king? When did we of the Netherlands ever trifle with 
vows ? You, the friend of Orange, have just declared 
that you did not grudge any man the faith to which he 


30 THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 

clung, and I will not doubt it. Well, I hold firmly to 
the old church, I am a Catholic and shall remain one. 
But in this hour I frankly confess, that I hate the inqui- 
sition and Alva’s bloody deeds as much as you do. 
They have as little connection with our religion as icon- 
oclasm had with yours Like you, I love the freedom 
of our home. To win it back is my endeavor, as well as 
yours. But how can a little handful like us ever suc- 
ceed in finally resisting the most powerful kingdom in 
the world? Though we conquer once, twice, thrice, 
two stronger armies will follow each defeated one. We 
shall accomplish nothing by force, but may do much by 
wise concession and prudent deeds. Philip’s coffers are 
empty ; he needs his armies too in other countries. Well 
then, let us profit by his difficulties, and force him to 
ratify some lost liberty for every revolted city that re- 
turns to him. Let us buy from his hands, with what 
remains of our old wealth, the rights he has wrested from 
us while fighting against the rebels. You will find open 
hands with me and those who share my opinions. Your 
voice weighs heavily in the council of this city. You 
are the friend of Orange, and if you could induce him — ” 

“To do what, noble sir ?” 

“ To enter into an alliance with us. We know that 
those in Madrid understand how to estimate his impor- 
tance and fear him. Let us stipulate, as the first condi- 
tion, a full pardon for him and his faithful followers. 
King Philip, I know, will receive him into favor again — ” 

“ In his arms to strangle him,” replied the burgo- 
master resolutely. “ Have you forgotten the false 
promises of pardon made in former times, the fate of 
Egmont and Horn, the noble Montigney and other 
lords? They ventured it and entered the tiger’s den- 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


3 1 

"What we buy to-day will surely be. taken from us to- 
morrow, for what oath would be sacred to Philip ? I 
am no statesman, but I know this — if he would restore 
all our liberties, he will never grant the one thing, with- 
out which life is valueless.” 

“ What is that, Herr Peter ?” 

“ The privilege of believing according to the dictates 
of our hearts. You mean fairly, noble sir; — but you 
trust the Spaniard, Ave do not ; if we did, we should be 
deceived children. You have nothing to fear for your 
religion, we everything ; you believe that the number of 
troops and power of gold will turn the scales in our 
conflict, Ave comfort ourselves with the hope, that God 
Avill give victory to the good cause of a brave people, 
ready to suffer a thousand deaths for liberty. This is 
my opinion, and I shall defend it in the town-hall.” 

“ No, Meister Peter, no! You cannot, ought not.” 

“ What I can do is little, Avhat I ought to do is writ- 
ten Avithin, and I shall act accordingly.” 

“ And thus obey the sorroAving heart rather than the 
prudent head, and be able to give naught save evil 
counsel. Consider, man,. Orange’s last army was de- 
stroyed on Mook Heath.” 

“ True, my lord, and for that very reason Ave will not 
use the moments for Avords, but deeds.” 

“ I’ll take the hint myself, Herr Van der Werff, for 
many friends of the king still dwell in Leyden, who 
must be taught not to follow you blindly to the 
shambles.” 

At these Avords Van der Werff retreated from the 
nobleman, clenched his moustache firmly in his right 
hand, and raising his deep voice to a louder tone, said 
coldly and imperiously : 


3 * 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


“ Then, as guardian of the safety of this city, I com- 
mand you to quit Leyden instantly. If you are found 
within these walls after noon to-morrow, I will have you 
taken across the frontiers by the city-guard.” 

The baron withdrew without any form of leave- 
taking. 

As soon as the door had closed behind him, Van der 
Werff, threw himself into his arm-chair and covered his 
face with his hands. When he again sat erect, two large 
tear-drops sparkled on the paper which had lain under 
his fingers. Smiling bitterly, he wiped them from the 
page with the back of his hand. 

“ Dead, dead,” he murmured, and the image of the 
gallant youth, the clever mediator, the favorite of Wil- 
liam of Orange, rose before his mind — he asked him- 
self how this fresh stroke of fate would affect the Prince, 
whom he revered as the providence of the country, ad- 
mired and loved as the wisest, most unselfish of men. 

William’s affliction grieved him as sorely as if it had 
fallen upon himself, and the blow that had struck the 
cause of freedom was a heavy one, perhaps never to be 
overcome. 

Yet he only granted himself a short time to indulge 
in grief, for the point in question now was to summon 
-all the nation’s strength to repair what was lost, avert 
by vigorous acts the serious consequences which threat- 
ened to follow Louis’s defeat, and devise fresh means to 
carry on the war. 

He paced up and down the room with frowning 
brow, inventing measures and pondering over plans. 

His wife had opened the door, and now remained 
standing on the threshold, but he did not notice her 
until she called his name and advanced towards him. 


THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE. 


33 


In her hand she held part of the flowers the boy had 
brought, another portion adorned her bosom. 

“ Take it,” she said, offering him the bouquet. 
“Adrian, dear boy, gathered them, and you surely 
know what they mean.” 

He willingly took the messengers of spring, raised 
them to his face, drew Maria to his breasr, pressed a 
long kiss upon her brow, and then said gloomily : 

“ So this is the celebration of the first anniversary of 
our wedding-day. Poor wife ! The Glipper was not so 
far wrong; perhaps it would have been wiser and better 
for me not to bind your fate to mine.” 

“ How can such thoughts enter your mind, Peter!” 
she exclaimed reproachfully. 

“ Louis of Nassau has fallen,” he murmured in a 
hollow tone, “his army is scattered.” 

“Oh — oh!” cried Maria, clasping her hands in 
horror, but he continued : 

“It was our last body of troops. The coffers are 
empty, and where we are to obtain new means, and 
what will happen now — this, this — Leave me, Maria, I 
beg you. If we don’t profit by the time now, if we 
don’t find the right paths now, we shall not, cannot 
prosper.” 

With these words he threw the bouquet on the table, 
hastily seized a paper, looked into it, and, without 
glancing at her, waved his right hand. 

The young wife’s heart had been full, wide open, 
when she entered the room. She had expected so much 
that was beautiful from this hour, and now stood alone 
in the apartment he still shared with her. Her arms 
had fallen by her side ; helpless, mortified, wounded, she 
gazed at him in silence. 


34 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


Maria had grown up amid the battle for freedom, 
and knew how to estimate the grave importance of the 
tidings her husband had received. During his wooing he 
had told her that, by his side, she must expect a life full 
of anxiety and peril, yet she had joyously gone to the 
altar with the brave champion of the good cause, which 
had been her father’s, for she had hoped to become the 
sharer of his cares and struggles. And now ? What 
was she permitted to be to him ? What did he receive 
from her ? What had he consented to share with her, 
who could not feel herself a feeble woman, on this, the 
anniversary of their wedding-day. 

There she stood, her open heart slowly closing and 
struggling against her longing to cry out to him, and say 
that she would as gladly bear his cares with him and 
share every danger, as happiness and honor. 

The burgomaster, having now found what he sought, 
seized his hat and again looked at his wife. 

How pale and disappointed she was ! 

His heart ached ; he would so gladly have given ex* 
pression in words to the great, warm love he felt for her, 
offered her joyous congratulations; but in this hour, amid 
his grief, with such anxieties burdening his breast, he 
could not do it, so he only held out both hands, saying 
tenderly : 

“You surely know what you are to me, Maria, if you 
do not, I will tell you this evening. I must meet the 
members of the council at the town-hall, or a whole day 
will be lost, and at this time we must be avaricious even 
of the moments. Well, Maria?” 

The young wife was gazing at the floor. She would 
gladly have flown to his breast, but offended pride would 
not suffer her to do so, and some mysterious power 


THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE. 


35 


bound her hands and did not permit her to lay them in 
his. 

“ Farewell,” she said in a hollow tone. 

“ Maria !” he exclaimed reproachfully. “ To-day is 
no well-chosen time for pouting. Come and be my 
sensible wife.” 

She did not move instantly; but he heard the bell 
ring for the fourth hour, the time when the session of 
the council ended, and left the room without looking 
back at her. 

The little bouquet still lay on the writing-table; the 
young wife saw it, and with difficulty restrained her 
tears. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Countless citizens had flocked to the stately town- 
hall. News of Louis of Nassau’s defeat had spread 
quickly through all the eighteen wards of the city, and 
each wanted to learn farther particulars, express his grief 
and fears to those who held the same views, and hear 
what measures tire council intended to adopt for the 
immediate future. 

Two messengers ,had only too thoroughly confirmed 
Baron Matanesse Van Wibisma’s communication. Louis 
was dead, his brother Henry missing, and his army 
completely destroyed. 

Jan Van Hout, who had taught the boys that morn- 
ing, now came to a window, informed the citizens what 
a severe blow the liberty of the country had received, 
and in vigorous words exhorted them to support the 
good cause with body and soul. 


36 THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 

Loud cheers followed this speech. Gay caps and 
plumed hats were tossed in the air, canes and swords 
were waved, and the women and children, who had 
crowded among the men, fluttered their handkerchiefs, 
and with their shriller voices drowned the shouts of the 
citizens. 

The members of the valiant city-guard assembled, to 
charge their captain to give the council the assurance, 
that the “ Schutterij ” was ready to support William of 
Orange to the last penny and drop of their blood, and 
would rather die for the cause of Holland, than live 
under Spanish tyranny. Among them was seen many a 
grave, deeply-troubled face, for these men, who filled its 
ranks by their own choice, all loved William of Orange: 
his sorrow hurt them — and their country’s distress 
pierced their hearts. As soon as the four burgomasters, 
the eight magistrates of the city, and the members of 
the common council appeared at the windows, hundreds 
of voices joined in the Geusenlied,* which had long 
before been struck up by individuals, and when at sun- 
set the volatile populace scattered and, still singing, 
turned, either singly or by twos or threes, towards the 
taverns, to strengthen their confidence in better days 
and dispel many a well-justified anxiety by drink, the 
market-place of Leyden and its adjoining streets pre- 
sented no different aspect, than if a message of victory 
had been read from the town -hall. 

The cheers and Beggars’ Song had sounded very pow- 
erful — but so many hundreds of Dutch throats would 
doubtless have been capable of shaking the air with far 
mightier tones. 

* Beggars' Song or Hymn. Beggar was the name giyen to the 
patriots by those who sympathized with Spain. 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


37 


This very remark had been made by the three well- 
dressed citizens, who were walking through the wide 
street, past the blue stone, and the eldest said to his 
companions : 

“ They boast and shout and seem large to them- 
selves now, but we shall see that things will soon be 
very different.” 

“May God avert the worst!” replied the other, “but 
the Spaniards will surely advance again, and I know 
many in my ward who won’t vote for resistance this 
time.” 

“They are right, a thousand times right. Requesens 
is not Alva, and if we voluntarily seek the king’s 
pardon — ” 

“ There would be no blood shed and everything 
would take the best course.” 

“ I have more love for Holland than for Spain,” 
said the third. “ But, after Mook-Heath, resistance is 
a thing of the past. Orange may be an excellent prince, 
but the shirt is closer than the coat.” 

“ And in fact we risk our lives and fortunes merely 
for him.” 

“ My wife said so, yesterday.” 

“ He’ll be the last man to help trade. Believe me, 
many think as we do, if it were not so, the Beggars’ Song 
would have sounded louder.” 

“ There will always be five fools to three wise men,” 
said the older citizen. “ I took good care not to split 
my mouth.” 

“ And after all, what great thing is there behind this 
outcry for freedom ? Alva burnt the Bible-readers, De 
la Marck hangs the priests. My wife likes to go to 


38 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


Mass, but always does so secretly, as if she were c6m- 
mitting a crime.” 

“ We, too, cling to the good old faith.” 

“ Never mind faith,” said the third. “ We are Cal- 
vinists, but I take no pleasure in throwing my pennies 
into Orange’s maw, nor can it gratify me to again tear 
up the poles before the Cow-gate, ere the wind dries the 
yarn.” 

. “ Only let us hold together,” advised the older man. 
“ People don’t express their real opinions, and any poor 
ragged devil might play the hero. But I tell you there 
will be sensible men enough in every ward, every guild, 
nay, even in the council, and among the burgomasters.” 

“ Hush,” whispered the second citizen, “ there comes 
Van der Werff with the city clerk and young Van der 
Does ; they are the worst of all.” 

The three persons named came down the broad 
street, talking eagerly together, but in low tones. 

“ My uncle is right, Meister Peter,” said Jan Van der 
Does, the same tall young noble, who, on the morning 
of that day, had sent Nicolas Van Wibisma home with 
a kindly warning. “ It’s no use, you must seek the Prince 
and consult with him.” 

“ I suppose I must,” replied the burgomaster. “ I’ll 
go to-morrow morning.” 

“ Not to-morrow,” replied Van Hout. “The Prince 
rides fast, and if you don’t find him in Delft — ” 

“ Do you go first,” urged the burgomaster, “ you 
have the record of our session.” 

“ I cannot ; but to-day you, the Prince’s friend, for 
the first time lack good-will.” 

“You are right, Jan,” exclaimed the burgomaster, 
“ and you shall know what holds me back.” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


39 


“ If it is anything a friend can do for you, here he 
stands,” said von Nordwyk. 

Van der Werff grasped the hand the young noble- 
man extended, and answered, smiling: “ No, my lord, 
no. You know my young wife. To-day we should 
have celebrated the first anniversary of our marriage, 
and amid all these anxieties I disgracefully forgot 
it.” 

“ Hard, hard,” said Van Hout, softly. Then he 
drew himself up to his full height, and added resolutely : 
“And yet, were I in your place, I would go, in spite 
of her.” 

“ Would you go to-day ?” 

“To-day, for to-morrow it may be too late. Who 
knows how soon egress from the city may be stopped 
and, before again venturing the utmost, we must know 
the Prince’s opinion. You possess more of his confi- 
dence than any of us.” 

“And God knows how gladly I would bring him a 
cheering word in these sorrowful hours; but it must 
not be to-day. The messenger has ridden off on my 
bay.” 

“Then take my chestnut, he is faster too,” said 
Janus Dousa and Van der Werff answered hastily : 

“ Thanks, my lord. I’ll send for him early to-mor- 
row morning.” 

The blood mounted to Van Hout’s head and, thrust- 
ing his hand angrily between his girdle and doublet, he 
exclaimed: “Send me the chestnut, if the burgomaster 
will give me leave of absence.” 

“ No, send him to me,” replied Peter calmly. “What 
must be, must be; I’ll go to-day.” 

Van Hout’s manly features quickly smpothed and, 


4 © 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


clasping the burgomaster’s right hand in both his, he 
said joyously : 

“ Thanks, Herr Peter. And no offence; you know 
my hot temper. If the time seems long to your young 
wife, send her to mine.” 

“ And mine,” added Dousa. “ It’s a strange thing 
about those two little words ‘wish’ and ‘ought.’ The 
freer and better a man becomes, the more surely the 
first becomes the slave of the second. 

“ And yet, Herr Peter, I’ll wager that your wife will 
confound the two words to-day, and think you have 
sorely transgressed against the ‘ ought.’ These are bad 
times for the ‘wish.’” 

Van der Werff nodded assent, then briefly and 
firmly explained to his friends what he intended to dis- 
close to the Prince. 

The three men separated before the burgomaster’s 
house. 

“ Tell the Prince,” said Van Hout, on parting, “that 
we are prepared for the worst, will endure and dare 
it.” 

At these words Janus Dousa measured both his 
companions with his eyes, his lips quivered as they al- 
ways did when any strong emotion filled his heart, and 
while his shrewd face beamed with joy and confidence, 
he exclaimed : “We three will hold out, we three will 
stand firm, the tyrant may break our necks, but he shall 
not bend them. Life, fortune, all that is dear and 
precious and useful to man, we will resign for the high- 
est of blessings.” 

“Ay,” said Van der Werff, loudly and earnestly, 
while Van Hout impetuously repeated : “Yes, yes, thrice 
yes.” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


4 l 


The three men, so united in feeling, grasped each 
other’s hands firmly for a moment. A silent vow bound 
them in this hour, and when Herr von Nordwyk and 
Van Hout turned in opposite directions, the citizens who 
met them thought their tall figures had grown taller still 
within the last few hours. 

The burgomaster went to his wife’s room without 
delay, but did not find her there. 

She had gone out of the gate with his sister. 

The maid-servant carried a light into his chamber ; 
he followed her, examined the huge locks of his pistols, 
buckled on his old sword, put what he needed into his 
saddle-bags, then, with his tall figure drawn up to its 
full height, paced up and down the room, entirely ab- 
sorbed in his task. 

Herr von Nordwyk’s chestnut horse was stamping 
on the pavement before the door, and Hesperus was ris- 
ing above the roofs. 

The door of the house now opened. 

He went into the entry and found, not his wife, but 
Adrian, who had just returned home, told the boy to give 
his most loving remembrances to his mother, and say 
that he was obliged to seek the Prince on important 
business. 

Old Trautchen had already washed and undressed 
little Elizabeth, and now brought him the child wrapped 
in a coverlet. He kissed the dear little face, which 
smiled at him out of its queer disguise, pressed his lips 
to Adrian’s forehead, again told him to give his love to 
his mother, and then rode down Marendorpstrasse. 

Two women coming from the Rheinsburger gate, 
met him just as he reached St. Stephen’s cloister. He 
did not notice them, but the younger one pushed the 
26 


42 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


kerchief back from her head, hastily grasped her com 
panion’s wrist, and exclaimed in a low tone : 

“ That was Peter ! ” 

Barbara raised her head higher. 

“ It’s lucky I’m not timid. Let go of my arm. Do 
you mean the horseman trotting past St. Ursula alley?” 

“ Yes, it is Peter.” 

“ Nonsense, child! The bay has shorter legs than 
that tall camel; and Peter never rides out at this 
hour.” 

“ But it was he.” 

“ God forbid ! At night a linden looks like a beech- 
tree. It would be a pretty piece of business, if he 
didn’t come home to-day.” 

The last words had escaped Barbara’s lips against 
her will ; for until then she had prudently feigned 
not to suspect that everything between Maria and her 
husband was not exactly as it ought to be, though 
she plainly perceived what was passing in the mind of 
her young sister-in-law. 

She was a shrewd woman, with much experience of 
the world, who certainly did not undervalue her brother 
and his importance to the cause of their native land ; 
nay, she went so far as to believe that, with the excep- 
tion of the Prince of Orange, no man on earth would be 
more skilful than Peter in guiding the cause of freedom 
to a successful end ; but she felt that her brother was 
not treating Maria justly, and being a fair-minded 
woman, silently took sides against the husband who 
neglected his wife. 

Both walked side by side for a time in silence. 

At last the widow paused, saying : 

“ Perhaps the Prince has sent a messenger for Peter- 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


43 


In such times, after such blows, everything is possible. 
You might have seen correctly.” 

“ It was surely he,” replied Maria positively. 

“ Poor fellow !” said the other. “ It must be a sad 
ride for him! Much honor, much hardship! You’ve 
no reason to despond, for your husband will return to- 
morrow or the day after ; while I — look at me, Maria ! 
I go through life stiff and straight, do my duty cheer- 
fully ; my cheeks are rosy, my food has a relish, yet I’ve 
been obliged to resign what was dearest to me. I have 
endured my widowhood ten years ; my daughter Gret- 
chen has married, and I sent Cornelius myself to the 
Beggars of the Sea. Any hour may rob me of him, 
for his life is one of constant peril. What has a widow 
except her only son ? And I gave him up for our 
country’s cause ! That is harder than to see a husband 
ride away for a few hours on the anniversary of his wed- 
ding-day. He certainly doesn’t do it for his own 
pleasure !” 

“ Here we are at home,” said Maria, raising the 
knocker. 

Trautchen opened the door and, even before cross- 
ing the threshold, Barbara exclaimed : 

“ Is your master at home ?” 

The reply was in the negative, as she too now 
expected. 

Adrian gave his message ; Trautchen brought up the 
supper, but. the conversation would not extend beyond 
“ yes” and “ no.” 

After Maria had hastily asked the blessing, she rose, 
and turning to Barbara, said : 

“ My head . aches, I should like to go to bed.” 

“ Then go to rest,” replied the widow. “ I’ll sleep 


44 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


in the next room and leave the door open. In darkness 
and silence — whims come.” 

Maria kissed her sister-in-law with sincere affection, 
and lay down in bed ; but she found no sleep, and tossed 
restlessly to and fro until near midnight. 

Hearing Barbara cough in the next room, she sat 
up and asked : 

“ Sister-in-law, are you asleep ?” 

“ No, child. Do you feel ill ?” 

“Not exactly; but I’m so anxious — horrible thoughts 
torment me.” 

Barbara instantly lighted a candle at the night-lamp, 
entered the chamber with it, and sat down on the edge 
of the bed. 

Her heart ached as she gazed at the pretty young 
creature lying alone, full of sorrow, in the wide bed, 
unable to sleep from bitter grief.. 

Maria had never seemed to her so beautiful ; resting 
in her white night-robes on the snowy pillow, she looked 
like a sorrowing angel. 

Barbara could not refrain from smoothing the hair 
back from the narrow forehead and kissing the flushed 
cheeks. 

Maria gazed gratefully into her small, light-blue eyes 
and said beseechingly : 

“ I should like to ask you something.” 

“Well?” 

“ But you must honestly tell me the truth.” 

'“ That is asking a great deal ! ” 

“ I know you are sincere, but it is — ” 

“ Speak freely.” 

“ Was Peter happy with his first wife ?” 

“ Yes, child, yes.” — 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


45 


“ And do you know this not only from him, but also 
from his dead wife, Eva ? ” 

“ Yes, sister-in-law, yes.” 

“ And you can’t be mistaken ?” 

“ Not in this case certainly ! But what puts such 
thoughts into your head ? The Bible says : ‘ Let the 
dead bury their dead.’ Now turn over and try to 
sleep.” 

Barbara went back to her room, but hours elapsed 
ere Maria found the slumber she sought. 


CHAPTER V. 

The next morning two horsemen, dressed in neat 
livery, were waiting before the door of a handsome 
house in Nobelstrasse, near the market-place. A third 
was leading two sturdy roan steeds up and down, and a 
stable-boy held by the bridle a gaily-bedizened, long- 
maned pony. This was intended for the young negro 
lad, who stood in the door-way of the house and kept 
off the street-boys, who ventured to approach, by rolling 
his eyes and gnashing his white teeth at them. 

“ Where can they be ?” said one of the mounted 
mem “ The rain won’t keep off long to-day.” 

“ Certainly not,” replied the other. “ The sky is as 
grey as my old felt-hat, and, by the time we reach the 
forest, it will be pouring.” 

“ It’s misting already.” 

“ Such cold, damp weather is particularly disagree- 
able to me.” 

“ It was pleasant yesterday.” 


46 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


“ Button the flaps tighter over the pistol-holsters ! 
The portmanteau behind the young master’s saddle isn’t 
exactly even. There ! Did the cook fill the flask for 
you ?” 

“ With brown Spanish wine. There it is.” 

“ Then let it pour. When a fellow is wet inside, he 
can bear a great deal of moisture without.” 

“ Lead the horses up to the door ; I hear the gen- 
tlemen.” 

The man was not mistaken ; for before his com- 
panion had succeeded in stopping the larger roan, the 
voices of his master, Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma, and 
his son, Nicolas, were heard in the wide entry. 

Both were exchanging affectionate farewells with a 
young girl, whose voice sounded deeper than the half- 
grown boy’s. 

As the older gentleman thrust his hand through the 
roan’s mane and was already lifting his foot to put it in 
the stirrup, the young girl, who had remained in the 
entry, came out into the street, laid her hand on Wibis- 
ma’s arm, and said : 

“ One word more, uncle, but to you alone.” 

The baron still held his horse’s mane in his hand, 
exclaiming with a cordial smile: 

“ If only it isn’t too heavy for the roan. A secret 
from beautiful lips has its weight.” 

While speaking, he bent his ear towards his niece, 
but she did not seem to have intended to whisper, for 
she approached no nearer and merely lowered her tone, 
saying in the Italian language : 

“ Please tell my father, that I won’t stay here.” 

“ Why, Henrica ! ” 

“ Tell him I won’t do so under any circumstances.” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


47 


“ Your aunt won’t let you go.” 

“ In short, I won’t stay.” 

“I’ll deliver the message, but in somewhat milder 
terms, if agreeable to you.” 

“ As you choose. Tell him, too, that I beg him to 
send for me. If he doesn’t wish to enter this heretic’s 
nest himself, for which I don’t blame him in the least, 
he need only send horses or the carriage for me.” 

“ And your reasons ?” 

“ I won’t weight your baggage still more heavily. 
Go, or the saddle will be wet before you ride off.” 

“ Then I’m to tell Hoogstraten to expect a letter.” 

“ No. Such things can’t be written. Besides, it 
won’t be necessary. Tell my father I won’t stay with 
aunt, and want to go home. Good-bye, Nico. Your 
riding-boots and green cloth doublet are much more be- 
coming than those silk fal-lals.” 

The young lady kissed her hand to the youth, who 
had already swung himself into the saddle, and hurried 
back to the house. Her uncle shrugged his shoulders, 
mounted the roan, wrapped the dark cloak closer around 
him, beckoned Nicolas to his side, and rode on with 
him in advance of the servants. 

No word was exchanged between them, so long as 
their way led through the city, but outside the gate, 
Wibisma said : 

“ Henrica finds the time long in Leyden; she would 
like to go back to her father.” 

“ It can’t be very pleasant to stay with aunt,” re- 
plied the youth. 

“ She is old and sick, and her life has been a joyless 
one.” 

“ Yet she was beautiful. Few traces of it are visible, 


4 8 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


but her eyes are still like those in the portrait, and be- 
sides she is so rich.” 

“ That doesn’t give happiness.” 

“ But why has she remained unmarried ?” 

The baron shrugged his shoulders, and replied : 

“ It certainly didn’t suit the men.” 

“ Then why didn’t she go into a convent ?” 

“ Who knows ? Women’s hearts are harder to un- 
derstand than your Greek books. You’ll learn that later. 
What were you saying to your aunt as I came up ?” 

“ Why, just see,” replied the boy, putting the bridle 
in his mouth, and drawing the glove from his left hand, 
“ she slipped this ring on my finger.” 

“ A splendid emerald ! She doesn’t usually like to 
part with such things.” 

“ She first offered me another, saying she would give 
it to me to make amends for the thumps I received yes- 
terday as a faithful follower of the king. Isn’t it 
comical ?” 

“ More than that, I should think.” 

“ It was contrary to my nature to accept gifts for 
my bruises, and I hastily drew my hand back, saying the 
burgher lads had taken some home from me, and I 
wouldn’t have the ring as a reward for that” 

“ Right, Nico, right.” 

“ So she said too, put the little ring back in the box, 
found this one, and here it is.” 

“ A valuable gem !” murmured the baron, thinking : 
“ This gift is a good omen. The Hoogstratens and he 
are her nearest heirs, and if the silly girl doesn’t stay 
with her, it might happen — ” 

But he found no time to finish these reflections, 
Nicolas interrupted them by saying : 


THE BURGOMASTERS WIFE. 


49 


“ It’s beginning to rain already. Don’t the fogs on 
the meadows look like clouds fallen from the skies ? I 
am cold.” 

“ Draw your cloak closer.” 

“ How it rains and hails ! One would think it was 
winter. The water in the canals looks black, and yon- 
der — see — what is that ?” 

A tavern stood beside the road, and just in front of 
it a single lofty elm towered towards the sky. Its 
trunk, bare as a mast, had grown straight up without 
separating into branches until it attained the height of a 
house. Spring had as yet lured no leaves from the 
boughs, but there were many objects to be seen in the 
bare top of the tree. A small flag, bearing the colors of 
the House of Orange, was fastened to one branch, from 
another hung a large doll, which at a distance strongly 
resembled a man dressed in black, an old hat dangled 
from a third, and a fourth supported a piece of white 
pasteboard, on which might be read in large black let- 
ters, which the rain was already beginning to efface : 

“Good luck to Orange, to the Spaniard death. 

So Peter Quatgelat welcomes his guests.” 

This tree, with its motley adornments, offered a 
by no means pleasant spectacle, seen in the grey, cold, 
misty atmosphere of the rainy April morning. 

Ravens had alighted beside the doll swaying to and 
fro in the wind, probably mistaking it for a man. They 
must have been by no means teachable birds, for during 
the years the Spaniards had ruled in Holland, the places 
of execution were never empty. They were screeching 
as if in anger, but still remained perched on the tree, 
which they probably mistook for a gibbet. The rest of 


5 ° 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


the comical ornaments and the thought of the nimble 
adventurer, who must have climbed up to fasten them, 
formed a glaring and offensive contrast to the caricature 
of the gallows. 

Yet Nicolas laughed loudly, as he perceived the 
queer objects in the top of the elm, and pointing up- 
ward, said : 

“ What kind of fruits are hanging there ? ” 

But the next instant a chill ran down his back, for a 
raven perched on the black doll and pecked so fiercely 
at it with its hard beak, that bird and image swayed to 
and fro like a pendulum. 

“ What does this nonsense mean ? ” asked the baron, 
turning to the servant, a bold-looking fellow, who rode 
behind him. 

“ It’s something like a tavern-sign,” replied the latter. 
“Yesterday, when the sun was shining, it looked funny 
enough — but to-day — b-r-r-r — it’s horrible.” 

The nobleman’s eyes were not keen enough to read 
the inscription on the placard. When Nicolas read it 
aloud to him, he muttered an oath, then turned again to 
the servant, saying : 

“ And does this nonsense bring guests to the rascally 
host’s tavern ?” 

“ Yes, my lord, and ’pon my soul, it looked very 
comical yesterday, when the ravens were not to be seen ; 
a fellow couldn’t look at it without laughing. Half 
Leyden was there, and we went with the crowd. There 
was such an uproar on the grass-plot yonder. Dudel- 
dum — Hiibiitt, Hubutt — Dudeldum — fiddles squeaking 
and bag-pipes droning as if they never would stop. 
The crazy throng shouted amidst the din ; the noise 
still rings in my ears. There was no end to the games 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 5 1 

and dancing. The lads tossed their brown, blue and 
red-stockinged legs in the air, just as the fiddle played — 
the coat-tails flew and, holding a girl clasped in the 
right arm and a mug of beer high over their heads till 
the foam spattered, the throng of men whirled round 
and round. There was as much screaming and rejoic- 
ing as if every butter-cup in the grass had been changed 
into a gold florin. But to-day — holy Florian — this is a 
rain !” 

“ It will do the things up there good,” exclaimed the 
baron. “ The tinder grows damp in such a torrent, or 
I’d take out my pistols and shoot the shabby liberty hat 
and motley tatters off the tree.” 

“That was the dancing ground,” said the man, 
pointing to a patch of trampled grass. 

“The people are possessed, perfectly possessed,” 
cried the baron, “dancing and rejoicing to-day, and to- 
morrow the wind will blow the felt-hat and flag from 
the tree, and instead of the black puppet they them- 
selves will come to the gallows. Steady roan, steady! 
The hail frightens the beasts. Unbuckle the portman- 
teau, Gerrit, and give your young master a blanket.” 

“ Yes, my lord. But wouldn’t it be better for you 
to go in here until the shower is over ? Holy Florian ! 
Just see that piece of ice in your horse’s mane ! It’s as 
large as a pigeon’s egg. Two horses are already stand- 
ing under the shed, and Quatgelat’s beer isn’t bad.” 

The baron glanced inquiringly at his son. 

“Let us go in,” replied Nicolas; “we shall get to the 
Hague early enough. See how poor Balthasar is shiver- 
ing! Ilenrica says he’s a white boy painted; but if she 
could see how well he keeps his color in this weather, 
she would take it back.” 


5 2 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


Herr Van Wibisma turned his dripping, smoking 
steed, frightened by the hail-stones, towards the house, 
and in a few minutes crossed the threshold of the inn 
with his son. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A current of warm air, redolent of beer and food, 
met the travellers as they entered the large, low room, 
dimly lighted by the tiny windows, scarcely more than 
loop-holes, pierced in two sides. The tap-room itself 
looked like the cabin of a ship. Ceiling and floor, chairs 
and tables, were made of the same dark-brown wood 
that covered the walls, along which beds were ranged 
like berths. 

The host, with many bows, came forward to receive 
the aristocratic guests, and led them to the fire-place, 
where huge pieces of peat were glimmering. The heat 
they sent forth answered several purposes at the same 
time. It warmed the air, lighted a portion of the room, 
which was very dark in rainy weather, and served to cook 
three fowl that, suspended from a thin iron bar over the 
fire, were already beginning to brown. 

As the new guests approached the hearth, an old 
woman, who had been turning the spit, pushed a white 
cat from her lap and rose. 

The landlord tossed on a bench several garments 
spread over the backs of two chairs to dry, and hung 
in their place the dripping cloaks of the baron and his 
son. 

While the elder Wibisma was ordering something 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 53 

hot to drink for himself and servants, Nicolas led the 
black page to the fire. 

The shivering boy crouched on the floor beside the 
ashes, and stretched now his soaked feet, shod in red 
morocco, and now his stiffened fingers to the blaze. 

The father and son took their seats at a table, over 
which the maid-servant had spread a cloth. The baron 
was inclined to enter into conversation about the dec- 
orated tree with the landlord, an over-civil, pock-marked 
dwarf, whose clothes were precisely the same shade of 
brown as the wood in his tap-room; but refrained from 
doing so because two citizens of Leyden, one of whom 
was well known to him, sat at a short distance from his 
table, and he did not wish to be drawn into a quarrel 
in a place like this. 

After Nicolas had also glanced around the tap-room, 
he touched his father, saying in a low tone : 

“ Did you notice the men yonder ? The younger 
one — he’s lifting the cover of the tankard now — is the 
organist who released me from the boys and gave me 
his cloak yesterday.” 

“ The one yonder ?” asked the nobleman. “ A hand- 
some young fellow. He might be taken for an artist or 
something of that kind. Here, landlord, who is the 
gentleman with brown hair and large eyes, talking to 
Allertssohn, the fencing-master ?” 

“ It’s Herr Wilhelm, younger son of old Herr Cor- 
nelius, Receiver General, a player or musician, as they 
call them.” 

“ Eh, eh,” cried the baron. “ His father is one of 
my old Leyden acquaintances. He was a worthy, ex- 
cellent man before the craze for liberty turned people’s 
heads. The youth, too, has a face pleasant to look at. 


54 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


There is something pure about it — something — it’s hard 
to say, something — what do you think, Nico ? Doesn’t 
lie look like our Saint Sebastian ? Shall I speak to him 
and thank him for his kindness ?” 

The baron, without waiting for his son, whom he 
treated as an equal, to reply, rose to give expression to 
his friendly feelings towards the musician, but this lauda- 
ble intention met with an unexpected obstacle. 

The man, whom the baron had called the fencing- 
master Allertssohn, had just perceived that the “ Glippers” 
cloaks were hanging by the fire, while his friend’s and his 
own were flung on a bench. This fact seemed to greatly 
irritate the Leyden burgher; for as the baron rose, he 
pushed his own chair violently back, bent his muscular 
body forward, rested both arms on the edge of the table 
opposite to him and, with a jerking motion, turned his 
soldierly face sometimes towards the baron, and some- 
times towards the landlord. At last he shouted loudly : 

u Peter Quatgelat — you villain, you ! What ails you, 
you, miserable hunchback! — Who gives you a right to 
toss our cloaks into a corner ?” 

“ Yours, Captain,” stammered the host, “ were 
already — ” 

“ Hold your tongue, you fawning knave !” thundered 
the other in so loud, a tone and such excitement, that the 
long grey moustache on his upper lip shook, and the 
thick beard on his chin trembled. “ Hold your tongue! 
We know better. Jove’s thunder ! Nobleman’s cloaks 
are favored here. They’re of Spanish cut. That ex- 
actly suits the Glippers’ faces. Good Dutch cloth is 
thrown into the corner. Ho, ho, Brother Crooklegs, 
we’ll put you on parade.” 

“ Pray, most noble Captain — ” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


55 


“ I’ll blow away your most noble, you worthless 
scamp, you arrant rascal ! First come, first served, is 
the rule in Holland, and has been ever since the days of 
Adam and Eve. Prick up your ears, Crooklegs ! If 
my ‘ most noble ’ cloak, and Herr Wilhelm’s too, are not 
hanging in their old places before I count twenty, 
something will happen here that won’t suit you. One — 
two — three — ” 

The landlord cast a timid, questioning glance at the 
nobleman, and as the latter shrugged his shoulders and 
said audibly : “ There is probably room for more than 
two cloaks at the fire,” Quatgelat took the Leyden 
guests’ wraps from the bench and hung them on two 
chairs, which he pushed up to the mantel-piece. 

While this was being done, the fencing-master slowly 
continued to count. By the time he reached twenty the 
landlord had finished his task, yet the irate captain still 
gave him no peace, but said : 

“ Now our reckoning, man. Wind and storm are far 
from pleasant, but I know even worse company. There’s 
room enough at the fire for four cloaks, and in Holland 
for all the animals in Noah’s ark, except Spaniards and 
the allies of Spain. Deuce take it, all the bile in my 
liver is stirred. Come to the horses with me, Herr 
Wilhelm, or there’ll be mischief.” 

The fencing-master, while uttering the last words, 
stared angrily at the nobleman with his prominent eyes, 
which even under ordinary circumstances, always looked 
as keen as if they had something marvellous to ex- 
amine. 

Wibisma pretended not to hear the provoking words, 
and, as the fencing-master left the room, walked calmly, 
with head erect, towards the musician, bowed court- 


5 6 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


eously, and thanked him for the kindness he had shown 
his son the day before. 

“ You are not in the least indebted to me,” replied 
Wilhelm Corneliussohn. “ I helped the young noble- 
man, because it always has an ill look when numbers 
attack one.” 

“ Then allow me to praise this opinion,” replied the 
baron. 

“ Opinion,” repeated the musician with a subtle 
smile, drawing a few notes on the table. 

The baron watched his fingers silently a short time, 
then advanced nearer the young man, asking : 

“ Must everything now relate to political dissen- 
sions ?” 

“Yes,” replied Wilhelm firmly, turning his face with 
a rapid movement towards the older man. “ In these 
times ‘yes,’ twenty times ‘yes.’ You wouldn’t do 
well to discuss opinions with me, Herr Matanesse.” 

“ Every man,” replied the nobleman, shrugging his 
shoulders, “every man of course believes his own 
opinion the right one, yet he ought to respect the views 
of those who think differently.” 

“ No, my lord,” cried the musician. “ In these 
times there is but one opinion for us. I wish to share 
nothing, not even a drink at the table, with any man 
who has Holland blood, and feels differently. Excuse 
me, my lord; my travelling companion, as you have 
unfortunately learned, has an impatient temper and 
doesn’t like to wait” 

Wilhelm bowed distantly, waved his hand to Nicolas, 
approached the chimney-piece, took the half-dried cloaks 
on his arm, tossed a coin on the table and, holding in 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


57 

his hands a covered cage in which several birds were 
fluttering, left the room. 

The baron gazed after him in silence. The simple 
words and the young man’s departure aroused painful 
emotions. He believed he desired what was right, yet 
at this moment a feeling stole over him that a stain 
rested on the cause he supported. 

It is more endurable to be courted than avoided, 
and thus an expression of deep annoyance rested on 
the nobleman’s pleasant features as he returned to his 
son. 

Nicolas had not lost a single word uttered by the 
organist, and the blood left his ruddy cheeks as he was 
forced to see this man, whose appearance had especially 
won his young heart, turn his back upon his father as if 
he were a dishonorable man to be avoided. 

The words, with which Janus Dousa had left him 
the day before, returned to his mind with great force, 
and when the baron again seated himself opposite him, 
the boy raised his eyes and said hesitatingly, but with 
touching earnestness and sincere anxiety : 

“ Father, what does that mean ? Father — are they 
so wholly wrong, if they would rather be Hollanders 
than Spaniards ? ” 

Wibisma looked at his son with surprise and dis- 
pleasure, and because he felt his own firmness wavering, 
and a blustering word often does good service where there 
is lack of possibility or inclination to contend against 
reasons, he exclaimed more angrily than he had spoken 
to his son for years : 

“Are you, too, beginning to relish the bait with 
which Orange lures simpletons ? Another word of that 
kind, and I’ll show you how malapert lads are treated. 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


5 * 

Here, landlord, what’s the meaning of that nonsense 
on yonder tree ?” 

“ The people, my lord, the Leyden fools are to 
blame for the mischief, not I. They decked the tree out 
in that ridiculous way, when the troops stationed in the 
city during the siege retired. I keep this house as a 
tenant of old Herr Van der Does, and dare not have 
any opinions of my own, for people must live, but, as 
truly as I hope for salvation, I’m loyal to King Philip.” 

“ Until the Leyden burghers come out here again,” 
replied Wibisma bitterly. “ Did you keep this inn dur- 
ing the siege ?” 

“Yes, my lord, the Spaniards had no cause to com- 
plain of me, and if a poor man’s services are not too in- 
significant for you, they are at your disposal.” 

“ Ah ! ha !” muttered the baron, gazing attentively 
at the landlord’s disagreeable face, whose little eyes 
glittered very craftily, then turning to Nicolas, said : 

“ Go and watch the blackbirds in the window yon- 
der a little while, my son, I have something to say to 
the host.” 

The youth instantly obeyed and as, instead of look- 
ing at the birds, he gazed after the two enthusiastic 
supporters of Holland’s liberty, who were riding along 
the road leading to Delft, remembered the simile of fet- 
ters that drag men down, and saw rising before his men- 
tal vision the glitter of the gold chain King Philip had 
sent his father, Nicolas involuntarily glanced towards 
him as he stood whispering eagerly with the landlord. 
Now he even laid his hand on his shoulder. Was it 
right for him to hold intercourse with a man whom he 
must despise at heart ? Or was he — he shuddered, for 
the word “ traitor,” which one of the school-boys had 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


59 

shouted in his ears during the quarrel before the church, 
returned to his memory. 

When the rain grew less violent, the travellers left the 
inn. The baron allowed the hideous landlord to kiss 
his hand at parting, but Nicolas would not suffer him 
to touch his. 

Few words were exchanged between father and son 
during the remainder of their ride to the Hague, but the 
musician and the fencing-master were less silent on the 
way to Delft. 

Wilhelm had modestly, as beseemed the younger 
man, suggested that his companion had expressed his 
hostile feelings towards the nobleman too openly. 

“ True, perfectly true,” replied Allertssohn, whom 
his friends called “ Allerts.” “ Very true ! Temper — 
oh! temper! You don’t suspect, Herr Wilhelm — But 
we’ll let it pass.” 

“ No, speak, Meister.” 

“ You’ll think no better of me, if I do.” 

“Then let us talk of something else.” 

“ No, Wilhelm. I needn’t be ashamed, no one will 
take me for a coward.” 

The musician laughed, exclaiming: “You a coward! 
How many Spaniards has your Brescian sword killed?” 

“ Wounded, wounded, sir, far oftener than killed,” 
replied the other. “ If the devil challenges me I shall 
ask : Foils, sir, or Spanish swords ? But there’s one 
person I do fear, and that’s my best and at the same 
time my worst friend, a Netherlander, like yourself, the 
man who rides here beside you. Yes, when rage seizes 
upon me, when my beard begins to tremble, my small 
share of sense flies away as fast as your doves when you 
let them go. You don’t know me, Wilhelm.” 


6o 


THE BURGOMASTER S WIFE. 


“ Don’t I ? How often must one see you in com- 
mand and visit you in the fencing-room ? ” 

“ Pooh, pooh — there I’m as quiet as the water in 
yonder ditch — but when anything goes against the 
grain, when — how shall I explain it to you, without 
similes ? ” 

“ Go on.” 

“ For instance, when I am obliged to see a syco- 
phant treated as if he were Sir Upright — ” 

“ So that vexes you greatly ?” 

“Vexes? No! Then I grow as savage as a tiger, 
and I ought not to be so, I ought not. Roland, my 
fore man, probably likes — ” 

“ Meister, Meister, your beard is beginning to trem- 
ble already !” 

“ What did the Glippers think, when their aristocra- 
tic cloaks — ” 

“The landlord took yours and mine from the fire 
entirely on his own responsibility.” 

“ I don’t care ! The crook-legged ape did it to honor 
the Spanish sycophant. It enraged me, it was intolera- 
ble.” 

“You didn’t keep your wrath to yourself, and I was 
surprised to see how patiently the baron bore your in- 
sults.” 

“ That’s just it, that’s it !” cried the fencing-master, 
while his beard began to twitch violently. “ That’s 
what drove me out of the tavern, that’s why I took to 
my heels. That — that — Roland, my fore man.” 

“ I don’t understand you.” 

“ Don’t you, don’t you ? How should you ; but I’ll 
explain. When you’re as old as I am, young man, 
you’ll experience it too. There are few perfectly sound 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


6l 


trees in the forest, few horses without a blemish, few 
swords without a stain, and scarcely a man who has 
passed his fortieth year that has not a worm in his 
breast. Some gnaw slightly, others torture with sharp 
fangs, and mine — mine. — Do you want to cast a glance 
in here ?” 

The fencing-master struck his broad chest as he ut- 
tered these words and, without waiting for his compan- 
ion’s reply, continued : 

“ You know me and my life, Herr Wilhelm. What 
do I do, what do I practise ? Only chivalrous work. 
My life is based upon the sword. Do you know a bet- 
ter blade or surer hand than mine ? Do my soldiers 
obey me ? Have I spared my blood in fighting before 
the red walls and towers yonder ? No, by my fore 
man Roland, no, no, a thousand times no.” 

“ Who denies it, Meister Allerts ? But tell me, what 
do you mean by your cry : Roland, my fore man ?” 

“ Another time, Wilhelm ; you mustn’t interrupt me 
now. Hear my story about where the worm hides in 
me. So once more : What I do, the calling I follow, is 
knightly work, yet when a Wibisma, who learned how 
to use his sword from my father, treats me ill and stirs 
up my bile, if I should preslime to challenge him, as 
would be my just right, what would he do ? Laugh and 
ask : ‘ What will the passado cost, Fencing-master Al- 
lerts ? Have you polished rapiers ?’ Perhaps he wouldn’t 
even answer at all, and we saw just now how he acts. 
His glance slipped past me like an eel, and he had wax 
in his ears. Whether I reproach, or a cur yelps at him, 
is all the same to his lordship. If only a Renneberg 
or Brederode had been in my place just now, how 
quickly Wibisma’s sword would have flown from its 


62 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


sheath, for he understands how to fight and is no 
coward. But I — I ? Nobody would willingly allow 
himself to be struck in the face, yet so surely as my 
father was a brave man, even the worst insult could be 
more easily borne, than the feeling of being held in too 
slight esteem to be able to offer an affront. You see, 
Wilhelm, when the Glipper looked past me — ” 

“ Your beard lost its calmness.” 

“ It’s all very well for you to jest, you don’t know — ” 

“Yes, yes, Herr Allerts; I understand you per- 
fectly.” 

“ And do you also understand, why I took myself 
and my sword out of doors so quickly ?” 

“ Perfectly ; but please stop a moment with me now. 
The doves are fluttering so violently ; they want air.” 

The fencing-master stopped his steed, and while 
Wilhelm was removing the dripping cloth from the little 
cage that rested between him and his horse’s neck, 
said: 

“ How can a man trouble himself about such gentle 
little creatures ? If you want to diminish, in behalf of 
feathered folk, the time given to music, tame falcons, 
that’s a knightly craft, and I can teach you.” 

“ Let my doves alone,” replied Wilhelm. “ They 
are not so harmless as people suppose, and have done 
good service in many a war, which is certainly chival- 
rous pastime. Remember Haarlem. There, it’s begin- 
ning to pour again. If my cloak were only not so 
short ; I would like to cover the doves with it.” 

“You certainly look like Goliath in David’s gar- 
ments.” 

“ It's my scholar’s cloak ; I put my other on young 
Wibisma’s shoulders yesterday.” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


6 3 


f< The Spanish green-finch ? ” 

“ I told you about the boys’ brawl.” 

“ Yes, yes. And the monkey kept your cloak ?” 

“ You came for me and wouldn’t wait. They prob- 
ably sent it back soon after our departure.” 

“ And their lordships expect thanks because the 
young nobleman accepted it !” 

“ No, no; the baron expressed his gratitude.” 

“ But that doesn’t make your cape any longer. Take 
my cloak, Wilhelm. I’ve no doves to shelter, and my 
skin is thicker than yours.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

A second and third rainy day followed the first one. 
White mists and grey fog hung over the meadows. The 
cold, damp north-west wind drove heavy clouds to- 
gether and darkened the sky. Rivulets dashed into the 
streets from the gutters on the steep roofs of Leyden ; 
the water in the canals and ditches grew turbid and 
rose towards the edges of the banks. Dripping, freez- 
ing men and women hurried past each other without 
any form of greeting, while the pair of storks pressed 
closer to each other in their nest, and thought of the 
warm south, lamenting their premature return to the 
cold, damp, Netherland plain. 

In thoughtful minds the dread of what must inevi- 
tably come was increasing. The rain made anxiety 
grow as rapidly in the hearts of many citizens, as the 
young blades of grain in the fields. Conversations, that 
sounded anything but hopeful, took place in many tap- 


6 4 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


rooms — in others men were even heard declaring re- 
sistance folly, or loudly demanding the desertion of the 
cause of the Prince of Orange and liberty. 

Whoever in these days desired to see a happy face 
in Leyden might have searched long in vain, and would 
probably have least expected to find it in the house of 
Burgomaster Van der Werff. 

Three days had now elapsed since Peter’s departure, 
nay the fourth was drawing towards noon, yet the bur- 
gomaster had not returned, and no message, no word of 
explanation, had reached his family. 

Maria had put on her light-blue cloth dress with 
Mechlin lace in the square neck, for her husband par- 
ticularly liked to see her in this gown and he must surely 
return to-day. 

The spray of yellow wall-flowers on her breast had 
been cut from the blooming plant in the window of her 
room, and Barbara had helped arrange her thick hair. 

It lacked only an hour of noon, when the young 
wife’s delicate, slender figure, carrying a white duster in 
her hand, entered the burgomaster’s study. Here she 
stationed herself at the window, from which the pouring 
rain streamed in numerous crooked serpentine lines, 
pressed her forehead against the panes, and gazed down 
into the quiet street. 

The water was standing between the smooth red 
tiles of the pavement. A porter clattered by in heavy 
wooden shoes, a maid-servant, with a shawl wrapped 
around her head, hurried swiftly past, a shoemaker’s 
boy, with a pair of boots hanging on his back, jumped 
from puddle to puddle, carefully avoiding the dry 
places; — no horseman appeared. 

It was almost unnaturally quiet in the house and 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


6S 


street; she heard nothing except the plashing of the 
rain. Maria could not expect her husband until the 
beat of horses’ hoofs was audible; she was not even 
gazing into the distance — only dreamily watching the 
street and the ceaseless rain. 

The room had been thoughtfully heated for the 
drenched man, whose return was expected, but Maria 
felt the cold air through the chinks in the windows. 
She shivered, and as she turned back into the dusky 
room, it seemed as if this twilight atmosphere must 
always remain, as if no more bright days could ever 
come. 

Minutes passed before she remembered for what 
purpose she had entered the room and began to pass 
the dusting-cloth over the writing-table, the piles of 
papers, and the rest of the contents of the apartment. 
At last she approached the pistols, which Peter had not 
taken with him on his journey. 

The portrait of her husband’s first wife hung above 
the weapons and sadly needed dusting, for until now 
Maria had always shrunk from touching it. 

To-day she summoned up her courage, stood op- 
posite to it, and gazed steadily at the youthful features 
of the woman, with whom Peter had been happy. She 
felt spellbound by the brown eyes that gazed at her from 
the pleasant face. 

Yes, the woman up there looked happy, almost in- 
solently happy. How much more had Peter probably 
given to his first wife than to her ? 

This thought cut her to the heart, and without mov- 
ing her lips she addressed a series of questions to the 
silent portrait, which still gazed steadily and serenely at 
her from its plain frame. 

i 


66 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


Once it seemed as if the full lips of the pictured 
face quivered, once that the eyes moved. A chill ran 
through her veins, she began to be afraid, yet could not 
leave the portrait, and stood gazing upward with dilated 
eyes. 

She did not stir, but her breath came quicker and 
quicker, and her eyes seemed to grow keener. 

A shadow rested on the dead Eva’s high forehead. 

Had the artist intended to depict some oppressive 
anxiety, or was what she saw only dust, that had settled 
on the colors ? 

She pushed a chair towards the portrait and put her 
foot on the seat, pushing her dress away in doing so. 
Blushing, as if other eyes than the painted ones were 
gazing down upon her, she drew it over the white stock- 
ing, then with a rapid movement mounted the seat. 

She could now look directly into the eyes of the por- 
trait. The cloth in Maria’s trembling hand passed over 
Eva’s brow, and wiped the shadow from the rosy flesh. 
She now blew the dust from the frame and canvas, and 
perceived the signature of the artist to whom the picture 
owed its origin. “ Artjen of Leyden,” he called himself, 
and his careful hand had finished even the unimportant 
parts of the work with minute accuracy. She well knew 
the silver chain with the blue turquoises, that rested on 
the plump neck. Peter had given it to her as a wedding 
present, and she had worn it to the altar; but the little 
diamond cross suspended from the middle she had never 
seen. The gold buckle at Eva’s belt had belonged to 
her since her last birthday — it was very badly bent, and 
the dull points would scarcely pierce the thick ribbon. 

“ She had everything when it was new,” she said to 
herself. “Jewels! What do I care for them ! But the 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 67 

heart, the heart — how much love has she left in Peter’s 
heart ?” 

She did not wish to do so, but constantly heard 
these words ringing in her ears, and was obliged to sum- 
mon up all her self-control, to save herself from weeping. 

“ If he would only come, if he would only come !” 
cried a voice in her tortured soul. 

The door opened, but she did not notice it. 

Barbara crossed the threshold, and called her by her 
name in a tone of kindly reproach. 

Maria started and blushing deeply, said : 

“ Please give me your hand ; I should like to get 
down. I have finished. The dust was a disgrace.” 

When she again stood on the floor, the widow said : 

“ What red cheeks you have ! Listen, my dear sister- 
in-law^ listen to me, child — !” 

Barbara was interrupted in the midst of her admoni- 
tion, for the knocker fell heavily on the door, and Maria 
hurried to the window. 

The widow followed, and after a hasty glance into 
the street, exclaimed : 

“ That’s Wilhelm Corneliussohn, the musician. He 
has been to Delft. I heard it from his mother. Per- 
haps he brings news of Peter. I’ll send him up to you, 
but he must first tell me below what his tidings are. If 
you want me, you’ll find me with Bessie. She is 
feverish and her eyes ache ; she will have some eruption 
or a fever.” 

Barbara left the room. Maria pressed her hands 
upon her burning cheeks, and paced slowly to and fro 
till the musician knocked and entered. 

After the first greeting, the young wife asked 
eagerly : 


68 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


“ Did you see my husband in Delft ?” 

“ Yes indeed,” replied Wilhelm, “ the evening of the 
day before yesterday.” 

“ Then tell me — ” 

“ At once, at once. I bring you a whole pouch full 
of messages. First from your mother.” 

“ Is she well?” 

“ Well and bright. Worthy Doctor Groot too is 
hale and hearty.” 

“ And my husband ? ” 

“ I found him with the doctor. Herr Groot sends 
the kindest remembrances to you. We had musical 
entertainments at his home yesterday and the day be- 
fore. He always has the latest novelties from Italy, 
and when we try this motet here — ” 

“Afterwards, Herr Wilhelm! You must first tell 
me what my husband — ” 

“ The burgomaster came to the doctor on a message 
from the Prince. He was in haste, and could not wait 
for the singing. It went off admirably. If you, with 
your magnificent voice, will only — ” 

“ Pray, Meister Wilhelm ?” 

“No, dear lady, you ought not to refuse. Doctor 
Groot says, that when a girl in Delft, no one could sup- 
port the tenor like you, and if you, Frau von Nordwyk, 
and Herr Van Aken’s oldest daughter — ” 

“But, my dear Meister!” exclaimed the burgo- 
master’s wife with increasing impatience, “ I’m not ask- 
ing about your motets and tabulatures, but my husband.” 

Wilhelm gazed at the young wife’s face with a half- 
startled, half-astonished look. Then, smiling at his own 
awkwardness, he shook his head, saying in a tone ot 
good-natured repentance : 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 6q 

“ Pray forgive me, little things seem unduly im- 
portant to us when they completely fill our own souls. 
One word about your absent husband must surely sound 
sweeter to your ears, than all my music. I ought to 
have thought of that sooner. So — the burgomaster is 
well and has transacted a great deal of business with 
the Prince. Before he went to Dortrecht yesterday 
morning, he gave me this letter and charged me to 
place it in your hands with the most loving greetings.” 

With these words the musician gave Maria a letter. 
She hastily took it from his hand, saying : 

“No offence, Herr Wilhelm, but we’ll discuss your 
motet to-morrow, or whenever you choose; to-day — ” 

“To-day your time belongs to this letter,” inter- 
rupted Wilhelm. “ That is only natural. The messen- 
ger has performed his commission, and the music-master 
will try his fortune with you another time.” 

As soon as the young man had gone, Maria went to 
her room, sat down at the window, hurriedly opened 
her husband’s letter and read : 

“My Dear and Faithful Wife! 

Meis ter Wilhelm Corneliussohn, of Leyden, will 
bring you this letter. I am well, but it was hard for me 
to leave you on the anniversary of our wedding-day. 
The weather is very bad. I found the Prince in sore 
affliction, but we don’t give up hope, and if God helps 
us and every man does his duty, all may yet be well. 
I am obliged to ride to Dortrecht to-day. I have an 
important object to accomplish there. Have patience, 
for several days must pass before my return. 

“If the messenger from the council inquires, give him 
the papers lying on the right-hand side of the writing- 


7 ° 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


table under the smaller leaden weight. Remember me 
to Barbara and the children. If money is needed, ask 
Van Hout in my name for the rest of the sum due me; 
he knows about it. If you feel lonely, visit his wife or 
Frau von Nordwyk; they would be glad to see you. 
Buy as much meal, butter, cheese, and smoked meat, as 
is possible. We don’t know what may happen. Take 
Barbara’s advice ! Relying upon your obedience, 

Your faithful husband, 

Peter Adrianssohn Van der Werff.” 

Maria read this letter at first hastily, then slowly, 
sentence by sentence, to the end. Disappointed, 
troubled, wounded, she folded it, drew the wall-flowers 
from the bosom of her dress — she knew not why — and 
flung them into the peat-box by the chimney-piece. 
Then she opened her chest, took out a prettily-carved 
box, placed it on the table, and laid her husband’s let- 
ter inside. 

Long after it had found a place with other papers, 
Maria still stood before the casket, gazing thoughtfully 
at its contents. 

At last she laid her hand on the lid to close it ; but 
hesitated and took up a packet of letters that had lain 
amid several gold and silver coins, given by godmothers 
and godfathers, modest trinkets, and a withered rose. 

Drawing a chair up to the table, the young wife 
seated herself and began to read. She knew these let- 
ters well enough. A noble, promising youth had ad- 
dressed them to her sister, his betrothed bride. They 
were dated from Jena, whither he had gone to complete 
his studies in jurisprudence. Every word expressed the 
lover’s ardent longing, every line was pervaded by the 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 7 1 

passion that had filled the writer’s heart. Often the 
prose of the young scholar, who as a pupil of Doctor 
Groot had won his bride in Delft, rose to a lofty flight. 

While reading, Maria saw in imagination Jacoba’s 
pretty face, and the handsome, enthusiastic countenance 
of her bridegroom. She remembered their gay wed- 
ding, her brother-in-law’s impetuous friend, so lavishly 
endowed with every gift of nature, who had accom- 
panied him to Holland to be his groomsman, and at 
parting had given her the rose which lay before her in 
the little casket. No voice had ever suited hers so well; 
she had never heard language so poetical from any 
other lips, never h ad eyes that sparkled like the young 
Thuringian noble’s looked into hers. 

After the wedding Georg von Dornberg returned 
home and the young couple went to Haarlem. She had 
heard nothing from the young foreigner, and her sister 
and her husband were soon silenced forever. Like most 
of the inhabitants of Haarlem, they were put to death 
by the Spanish destroyers at the capture of the noble, 
hapless city. Nothing was left of her beloved sister ex- 
cept a faithful memory of her, and her betrothed bride- 
groom’s letters, which she now held in her hand. 

They expressed love , the true, lofty love, that can 
speak with the tongues of angels and move mountains. 

There lay her husband’s letter. Miserable scrawl ! 
She shrank from opening it again, as she laid the beloved 
mementoes back into the box, yet her breast heaved as 
she thought of Peter. She knew too that she loved 
him, and that his faithful heart belonged to her. But 
she was not satisfied, she was not happy, for he showed 
her only tender affection or paternal kindness, and she 
wished to be loved differently. The pupil, nay the 


72 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


friend of the learned Groot, the young wife who had 
grown up in the society of highly educated men, the 
enthusiastic patriot, felt that she was capable of being 
more, far more to her husband, than he asked. She had 
never expected gushing emotions or high-strung phrases 
from the grave man engaged in vigorous action, but 
believed he would understand all the lofty, noble senti- 
ments stirring in her soul, permit her to share his 
struggles and become the partner of his thoughts and 
feelings. The meagre letter received to-day again 
taught her that her anticipations were not realized. 

He had been a faithful friend of her father, now 
numbered with the dead. Her brother-in-law too had 
attached himself, with all the enthusiasm of youth, to 
the older, fully-matured champion of liberty, Van der 
Werff. When he had spoken of Peter to Maria, it was 
always with expressions of the warmest admiration and 
love. Peter had come to Delft soon after her father’s 
death and the violent end of the young wedded pair, 
and when he expressed his sympathy and strove to com- 
fort her, did so in strong, tender words, to which she 
could cling, as if to an anchor, in the misery of her 
heart. The valient citizen of Leyden came to Delft 
more and more frequently, and was always a guest at 
Doctor Groot’s house. When the men were engaged in 
consultation, Maria was permitted to fill their glasses 
and be present at their conferences. Words flew to and fro 
and often seemed to her neither clear nor wise ; but what 
Van der Werff said was always sensible, and a child 
could understand his plain, vigorous speech. He ap- 
peared to the young girl like an oak-tree among sway- 
ing willows. She knew of many of his journeys, under- 
taken at the peril of his life, in the service of the Prince 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


73 


and his native land, and awaited their result with a 
throbbing heart. 

More than once in those days, the thought had en- 
tered her mind that it would be delightful to be borne 
through life in the strong arms of this steadfast man. 
Then he extended these arms, and she yielded to his 
wish as proudly and happily as a squire summoned by 
the king to be made a knight. She now remembered 
this by-gone time, and every hope with which she had 
accompanied him to Leyden rose vividly before her 
soul. 

Her newly-wedded husband had promised her no 
spring, but a pleasant summer and autumn by his side. 
She could not help thinking of this comparison, and 
what entirely different things from those she had antici- 
pated, the union with him had offered to this day. 
Tumult, anxiety, conflict, a perpetual alternation of hard 
work and excessive fatigue, this was his life, the life he 
had summoned her to share at his side, without even 
showing any desire to afford her a part in his cares and 
labors. Matters ought not, should not go on so. Every- 
thing that had seemed to her beautiful and pleasant in 
her parents’ home — was being destroyed here. Music 
and poetry, that had elevated her soul, clever conver- 
sation, that had developed her mind, were not to be 
found here. Barbara’s kind feelings could never sup- 
ply the place of these lost possessions ; for her husband’s 
love she would have resigned them all — but what had 
become of this love ? 

With bitter emotions, she replaced the casket in the 
chest and obeyed the summons to dinner, but found no 
one at the great table except Adrian and the servants. 
Barbara was watching Bessie. 

28 


74 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


Never had she seemed to herself so desolate, so 
lonely, so useless as to-day. What could she do here ? 
Barbara ruled in kitchen and cellar, and she — she only 
stood in the way of her husband’s fulfilling his duties to 
the city and state. 

Such were her thoughts, when the knocker again 
struck the door. She approached the window. It was 
the doctor. Bessie had grown worse and she, her 
mother, had not even inquired for the little one. 

“ The children, the children ! ” she murmured ; her 
sorrowful features brightened, and her heart grew 
lighter as she said to herself : 

“ I promised Peter to treat them as if they were my 
own, and I will fulfil the duties I have undertaken.” 

Full of joyous excitement, she entered the sick-room, 
hastily closing the door behind her. Doctor Bontius 
looked at her with a reproving glance, and Barbara 
said : 

“ Gently, gently ! Bessie is just sleeping a little.” 

Maria approached the bed, but the physician waved 
her back, saying : 

“ Have you had the purple-fever ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Then you ought not to enter this room again. No 
other help is needed where Frau Barbara nurses.” 

The burgomaster’s wife made no reply, and returned 
to the entry. Her heart was so heavy, so unutterably 
heavy. She felt like a stranger in her husband’s house. 
Some impulse urged her to go out of doors, and as she 
wrapped her mantle around her and went downstairs, 
the smell of leather rising from the bales piled in layers 
on the lower story, which she had scarcely noticed be- 
fore, seemed unendurable. She longed for her mother, 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


75 


her friends in Delft, and her quiet, cheerful home. For 
the first time she ventured to call herself unhappy and, 
while walking through the streets with downcast eyes 
against the wind, struggled vainly to resist some myste- 
rious, gloomy power, that compelled her to minutely re- 
call everything that had resulted differently from her 
expectations. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

After the musician had left the burgomaster’s 
house, he went to young Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma’s 
aunt to get his cloak, which had not been returned to 
him. He did not usually give much heed to his dress, 
yet he was glad that the rain kept people in the house, 
for the outgrown wrap on his shoulders was by no means 
pleasing in appearance. Wilhelm must certainly have 
looked anything but well-clad, for as he stood in old 
Fraulein Van Hoogstraten’s spacious, stately hall, the 
steward Belotti deceived him as patronizingly as if he 
were a beggar. 

But the Neopolitan, in whose mouth the vigorous 
Dutch sounded like the rattling in the throat of a chilled 
singer, speedily took a different tone when Wilhelm, in 
excellent Italian, quietly explained the object of his 
visit. Nay, at the sweet accents of his native tongue, 
the servant’s repellent demeanor melted into friendly, 
eager welcome. He was beginning to speak of his 
home to Wilhelm, but the musician made him curt replies 
and asked him to get his cloak. 


7 6 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


Belotti now led him courteously into a small room 
at the side of the great hall, took off his cloak, and then 
went upstairs. As minute after minute passed, until at 
last a whole quarter of an hour elapsed, and neither 
servant nor cloak appeared, the young man lost his 
patience, though it was not easily disturbed, and when the 
door at last opened serious peril threatened the leaden 
panes on which he was drumming loudly with his 
fingers. Wilhelm doubtless heard it, yet he drummed 
with redoubled vehemence, to show the Italian that the 
time was growing long to him. But he hastily with- 
drew his fingers from the glass, for a girl’s nTusical voice 
said behind him in excellent Dutch : 

“ Have you finished your war-song, sir ? Belotti is 
bringing your cloak.” 

Wilhelm had turned and was gazing in silent bewil- 
derment into the face of the young noblewoman, who 
stood directly in front of him. These features were not 
unfamiliar, and yet — years do not make even a goddess 
younger, and mortals increase in height and don’t grow 
smaller ; but the lady whom he thought he saw before 
him, whom he had known well in the eternal city and 
never forgotten, had been older and taller than the 
young girl, who so strikingly resembled her and seemed 
to take little pleasure in the young man’s surprised yet 
inquiring glance. With a haughty gesture she beckoned 
to the steward, saying in Italian : 

“ Give the gentleman his cloak, Belotti, and tell him 
I came to beg him to pardon your forgetfulness.” 

With these words Henrica Van Hoogstraten turned 
towards the door, but Wilhelm took two hasty strides 
after her, exclaiming : 

" Not yet, not yet, Fraulein ! I am the one to apolo- 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


77 


gize. But if you have ever been amazed by a resem- 
blance — ” 

“ Anything but looking like other people ! ” cried the 
girl with a repellent gesture. 

“Ah, Fraulein, yet — ” 

“ Let that pass, let that pass,” interrupted Henrica 
in so irritated a tone that the musician looked at her in 
surprise. “ One sheep looks just like another, and 
among a hundred peasants twenty have the same face. 
All wares sold by the dozen are cheap.” 

As soon as Wilhelm heard reasons given, the quiet 
manner peculiar to him returned, and he answered 
modestly : 

“ But nature also forms the most beautiful things in 
pairs. Think of the eyes in the Madonna’s face.” 

“ Are you a Catholic ?” 

“ A Calvinist, Fraulein.” 

“ And devoted to the Prince’s cause ?” 

“ Say rather, the cause of liberty.” 

“ That accounts for the drumming of the war-song.” 

“ It was first a gentle gavotte, but impatience quick- 
ened the time. I am a musician, Fraulein.” 

“ But probably no drummer. The poor panes !” 

“They are an instrument like any other, and in 
playing we seek to express what we feel.” 

“ Then accept my thanks for not breaking them to 
pieces.” 

“ That wouldn’t have been beautiful, Fraulein, and 
art ceases when ugliness begins.” 

“ Do you think the song in your cloak — it dropped 
on the ground and Nico picked it up — beautiful or 
ugly?” 

“ This one or the other ?” 


7 « 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


“ I mean the Keggar-song.” 

“ It is fierce, but no more ugly than the roaring of 
the storm.” 

“ It is repulsive, barbarous, revolting.” 

“ I call it strong, overmastering in its power.” 

“ And this other melody ?” 

“ Spare me an answer ; I composed it myself. Can 
you read notes, Fraulein ?” 

“ A little.” 

“ And did my attempt displease you ?” 

“ Not at all, but I find dolorous passages in this 
choral, as in all the Calvinist hymns.” 

“ It depends upon how they are sung.” 

“ They are certainly intended for the voices of the 
shopkeepers’ wives and washerwomen in your churches.” 

“ Every hymn, if it is only sincerely felt, will lend 
wings to the souls of the simple, folk who sing it ; and 
whatever ascends to Heaven from the inmost depths of 
the heart, can hardly displease the dear God, to whom it 
is addressed. And then — ” 

“ Well?” 

“ If these notes are worth being preserved, it may 
happen that a matchless choir — ” 

“ Will sing them to you, you think ?” 

“ No, Fraulein ; they have fulfilled their destination 
if they are once nobly rendered. I would fain not be 
absent, but that wish is far less earnest than the other.” 

“ How modest ! ” 

“ I think the best enjoyment in creating is had in 
anticipation.” 

Henrica gazed at the artist with a look of sympathy, 
and said with a softer tone in her musical voice : 

“ I am sorry for you, Meister. Your music pleases 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


79 


me ; why should I deny it ? In many passages it appeals 
to the heart, but how it will be spoiled in your churches! 
Your heresy destroys every art. The works of the great 
artists are a horror to you, and the noble music that has 
unfolded here in the Netherlands will soon fare no 
better.” 

“ I think I may venture to believe the contrary.” 

“ Wrongly, Meister, wrongly, for if your cause 
triumphs, which may the Virgin forbid, there will soon 
be nothing in Holland except piles of goods, workshops, 
and bare churches, from which even singing and organ- 
playing will soon be banished.” 

“ By no means, Fraulein. Little Athens first be- 
came the home of the arts, after she had secured her 
liberty in the war against the Persians.” 

“Athens and Leyden!” she answered scornfully. 
“ True, there are owls on the tower of Pancratius. But 
where shall we find the Minerva?” 

While Henrica rather laughed than spoke these 
words, her name was called for the third time by a 
shrill female voice. She now interrupted herself in the 
middle of a sentence, saying : 

“ I must go. I will keep these notes.” 

“ You will honor me by accepting them ; perhaps 
you will allow me to bring you others.” 

“ Henrica!” the voice again called from the stairs, 
and the young lady answered hastily : 

“ Give Belotti whatever you choose, but soon, for I 
shan’t stay here much longer.” 

Wilhelm gazed after her. She walked no less quickly 
and firmly through the wide hall and up the stairs, than 
she had spoken, and again he was vividly reminded of 
his friend in Rome. 


So 


THE BURGOMASTERS WIFE. 


The old Italian had also followed Henrica with his 
eyes. As she vanished at the last bend of the broad 
steps, he shrugged his shoulders, turned to the musician 
and said, with an expression of honest sympathy : 

“ The young lady isn’t well. Always in a tumult ; 
always like a loaded pistol, and these terrible headaches 
too ! She was different when she came here.” 

“ Is she ill ?” 

“ My mistress won’t see it,” replied the servant. 
“ But what the cameriera and I see, we see. Now red 
— now pale, no rest at night, at table she scarcely eats a 
chicken-wing and a leaf of salad.” 

“ Does the doctor share your anxiety ?” 

“ The doctor ? Doctor Fleuriel isn’t here. He 
moved to Ghent when the Spaniards came, and since 
then my mistress will have nobody but the barber who 
bleeds her. The doctors here are devoted to the Prince 
of Orange and are all heretics. There, she is calling 
again. I’ll send the cloak to your house, and if you ever 
feel inclined to speak my language, just knock here. 
That calling — that everlasting calling ! The young lady 
suffers from it too.” 

When Wilhelm entered the street, it was only rain- 
ing very slightly. The clouds were beginning to scatter, 
and from a patch of blue sky the sun was shining 
brightly down on Nobelstrasse. A rainbow shimmered 
in variegated hues above the roofs, but to-day the musi- 
cian had no eyes for the beautiful spectacle. The bright 
light in the wet street did not charm him. The hot 
rays of the day-star were not lasting, for “ they drew 
rain.” All that surrounded him seemed confused 
and restless. Beside a beautiful image which he 
treasured in the sanctuary of his memories, only allow- 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


8l 


ing his mind to dwell upon it in his happiest hours, 
sought to intrude. His real diamond was in danger of 
being exchanged for a stone, whose value he did not 
know. With the old, pure harmony blended another 
similar one, but in a different key. How could he still 
think of Isabella, without remembering Henrica ! At 
least he had not heard the young lady sing, so his 
recollection of Isabella’s songs remained unclouded. 
He blamed himself because, obeying an emotion of 
vanity, he had promised to send new songs to the proud 
young girl, the friend of Spain. He had treated Herr 
Matanesse Van Wibisma rudely on account of his 
opinions, but sought to approach her, who laughed at 
what he prized most highly, because she was a woman, 
and it was sweet to hear his work praised by beautiful 
lips. “ Hercules throws the club aside and sits down at 
the distaff, when Omphale beckons, and the beautiful 
Esther and the daughter of Herodias — ” murmured 
Wilhelm indignantly. He felt sorely troubled, and 
longed for his quiet attic chamber beside the dove-cote. 

“ Something unpleasant has happened to him in 
Delft,” thought his father. 

“ Why doesn’t he relish his fried flounders to-day ? ” 
asked his mother, when he had left them after dinner. 
Each felt that something oppressed the pride and 
favorite of the household, but did not attempt to dis- 
cover the cause; they knew the moods to which he was 
sometimes subject, for half a day. 

After Wilhelm had fed his doves, he went to his 
room, where he paced restlessly to and fro. Then he 
seized his violin and wove all the melodies he had 
heard from Isabella’s lips into one. His music had 
rarely sounded so soft, and then so fierce and passionate, 


82 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


and his mother, who heard it in the kitchen, turned the 
twirling-stick faster and faster, then thrust it into the 
firmly-tied dough, and rubbing her hands on her 
apron, murmured : 

“ How it wails and exults ! If it relieves his heart, 
in God’s name let him do it, but cat-gut is dear and it 
will cost at least two strings.” 

Towards evening Wilhelm was obliged to go to the 
drill of the military corps to which he belonged. His 
company was ordered to mount guard at the Hooge- 
woort Gate. As he marched through Nobelstrasse with 
it, he heard the low, clear melody of a woman’s voice 
issuing from an open window of the Hoogstraten man- 
sion. He listened, and noticing with a shudder how 
much Henrica’s voice — for the singer must be the 
young lady — resembled Isabella’s, ordered the drum- 
mer to beat the drum. 

The next morning a servant came from the Hoog- 
straten house and gave Wilhelm a note, in which he was 
briefly requested to come to Nobelstrasse at two o’clock 
in the afternoon, neither earlier nor later. 

He did not wish to say “ yes ” — he could not say 
“ no,” and went to the house at the appointed hour. 

Henrica was awaiting him in the little room adjoin- 
ing the hall. She looked graver than the day before, 
while heavier shadows under her eyes and the deep 
flush on her cheeks reminded Wilhelm of Belotti’s fears 
for her health. After returning his greeting, she said 
without circumlocution, and very rapidly : 

“ I must speak to you. Sit down. To be brief, the 
way you greeted me yesterday awakened strange 
thoughts. I must strongly resemble some other woman, 
and you met her in Italy. Perhaps you are reminded of 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


83 


some one very near to me, of whom I have lost all trace. 
Answer me honestly, for I do not ask from idle curiosity. 
Where did you meet her ?” 

“ In Lugano. We drove to Milan with the same 
vetturino, and afterwards I found her again in Rome 
and saw her daily for months.” 

“ Then you know her intimately. Do you still 
think the resemblance surprising, after having seen me 
for the second time ?” 

“ Very surprising.” 

“ Then I must have a double. Is she a native of 
this country ?” 

“ She called herself an Italian, but she understood 
Dutch, for she has often turned the pages of my books 
and followed the conversation I had with young artists 
from our home. I think she is a German lady of noble 
family.” 

“An adventuress then. And her name ?” 

“ Isabella — but I think no one would be justified in 
calling her an adventuress.” 

“Was she married ? ” 

“ There was something matronly in her majestic 
appearance, yet she never spoke of a husband. The old 
Italian woman, her duenna, always called her Donna 
Isabella, but she possessed little more knowledge of her 
past than I.” 

“Is that good or evil ? ” 

“ Nothing at all, Fraulein.” 

“ And what led her to Rome ? ” 

“ She practised the art of singing, of which she was 
mistress; but did not cease studying, and made great 
progress in Rome. I was permitted to instruct her in 
counterpoint.” 




8 4 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


“ And did she appear in public as a singer ? ” 

“ Yes and no. A distinguished foreign prelate was 
her patron, and his recommendation opened every door, 
even the Palestrina’s. So the church music at aristo- 
cratic weddings was entrusted to her, and she did not 
refuse to sing at noble houses, but never appeared for 
pay. I know that, for she would not allow any one 
else to play her accompaniments. She liked my music, 
and so through her I went into many aristocratic 
houses.” 

“ Was she rich ? ” 

“ No, Fraulein. She had beautiful dresses and bril- 
liant jewels, but was compelled to economize. Remit- 
tances of money came to her at times from Florence, 
but the gold pieces slipped quickly through her fingers, 
for though she lived plainly and eat scarcely enough for 
a bird, while her delicate strength required stronger 
food, she was lavish to imprudence if she saw poor 
artists in want, and she knew most of them, for she did 
not shrink from sitting with them over their wine in my 
company,” 

“With artists and musicians ?” 

“ Mere artists of noble sentiments. At times she 
surpassed them all in her overflowing mirth.” 

“ At times ? ” 

“Yes, only at times, for she had also sorrowful, 
pitiably sorrowful hours and days, but as sunshine and 
shower alternate in an April day, despair and extrava- 
gant gayety ruled her nature by turns.” 

“ A strange character. Do you know her end ?” 

“ No, Fraulein. One evening she received a letter 
from Milan, which must have contained bad news, and 
the next day vanished without any farewell.” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 85 

“ And you did not try to follow her ? ” 

Wilhelm blushed, and answered in an embarrassed 
tone : 

“ I had no right to do so, and just after her de- 
parture I fell sick — dangerously sick.” 

“ You loved her ?” 

“ Fraulein, I must beg you — ” 

“You loved her! And did she return your affec- 
tion ?” 

“We have known each other only since yesterday, 
Fraulein von Hoogstraten.” 

“ Pardon me ! But if you value my desire, we shall 
not have seen each other for the last time, though my 
double is undoubtedly a different person from the one I 
supposed. Farewell till we meet again. You hear, that 
calling never ends. You have aroused an interest in 
your strange friend, and some other time must tell me 
more about her. Only this one - question : Can a mod- 
est maiden talk of her with you without disgrace ? ” 

“ Certainly, if you do not shrink from speaking of a 
noble lady who had no other protector than herself.” 

“And you, don’t forget yourself!” cried Henrica, 
leaving the room. 

The musician walked thoughtfully towards home. 
Was Isabella a relative of this young girl ? He had 
told Henrica almost all he knew of her external circum- 
stances, and this perhaps gave the former the same right 
to call her an adventuress, that many in Rome had 
assumed. The word wounded him, and Henrica’s 
inquiry whether he loved the stranger disturbed him, 
and appeared intrusive and unseemly. Yes, he had felt 
an ardent love for her ; ay, he had suffered deeply be- 
cause he was no more to her than a pleasant companion 


86 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


and reliable friend. It had cost him struggles enough 
to conceal his feelings, and he knew, that but for the 
dread of repulse and scorn, he would have yielded and 
revealed them to her. Old wounds in his heart opened 
afresh, as he recalled the time she suddenly left Rome 
without a word of farewell. After barely recovering from 
a severe illness, he had returned home pale and dispirited, 
and months elapsed ere he could again find genuine 
pleasure in his 'art. At first, the remembrance of her 
contained nothing save bitterness, but now, by quiet, 
persistent effort, he had succeeded, not in attaining for- 
getfulness, but in being able to separate painful emo- 
tions from the pure and exquisite joy of remembering 
her. To-day the old struggle sought to begin afresh, 
but he was not disposed to yield, and did not cease to 
summon Isabella’s image, in all its beauty, before his 
soul. 

Henrica returned to her aunt in a deeply-agitated 
mood. Was the adventuress of whom Wilhelm had 
spoken, the only creature whom she loved with all the 
ardor of her passionate soul ? Was Isabella her lost sis- 
ter ? Many incidents were opposed to it, yet it was pos- 
sible. She tortured herself with questions, and the less 
peace her aunt gave her, the more unendurable her head- 
ache became, the more plainly she felt that the fever, 
against whose relaxing power she had struggled for days, 
would conquer her. 


THE BURGOMASTER’S wiFE. 


87 


CHAPTER IX. 

On the evening of the third day after Wilhelm’s in- 
terview with Henrica, his way led him through Nobel- 
strasse past the Hoogstraten mansion. 

Ere reaching it, he saw two gentlemen, preceded by 
a servant carrying a lantern, cross the causeway towards 
it. 

Wilhelm’s attention was attracted. The servant now 
seized the knocker, and the light of his lantern fell on 
the men’s faces. Neither was unfamiliar to him. 

The small, delicate old man, with the peaked hat 
and short black velvet cloak, was Abbe Picard, a gay 
Parisian, who had come to Leyden ten years before and 
gave French lessons in the wealthy families of the city. 
He had been Wilhelm’s teacher too, but the musician’s 
father, the Receiver- General, would have nothing to do 
with the witty abbe ; for he was said to have left his 
beloved France on account of some questionable trans- 
actions, and Herr Cornelius scented in him a Spanish 
spy. The other gentleman, a grey-haired, unusually stout 
man, of middle height, who required a great deal of 
cloth for his fur-bordered cloak, was Signor Lamperi, the 
representative of the great Italian mercantile house of 
Bonvisi in Antwerp, who was in the habit of annually 
coming to Leyden on business for a few weeks with the 
storks and swallows, and was a welcome guest in every 
•tap-room as the inexhaustible narrator of funny stories. 
Before these two men entered the house, they were 
joined by a third, preceded by two servants carrying lan- 


88 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


terns. A wide cloak enveloped his tall figure; he too 
stood on the threshold of old age and was no stranger 
to Wilhelm, for the Catholic Monseigneur Gloria, who 
often came to Leyden from Haarlem, was a patron of 
the noble art of music, and when the young man set out 
on his journey to Italy had provided him, spite of his 
heretical faith, with valuable letters of introduction. 

Wilhelm, as the door closed behind the three gentle- 
men, continued his way. Belotti had told him the day 
before that the young lady seemed very ill, but since 
her aunt was receiving guests, Henrica was doubtless 
better. 

The first story in the Hoogstraten mansion was 
brightly lighted, but in the second a faint, steady glow 
streamed into Nobelstrasse from a single window, while 
she for whom the lamp burned sat beside a table, her 
eyes sparkling with a feverish glitter, as she pressed her 
forehead against the marble top. Henrica was entirely 
alone in the wide, lofty room her aunt had assigned her. 
Behind curtains of thick faded brocade was her bedstead, 
a heavy structure of enormous width. The other articles 
of furniture were large and shabby, but had once been 
splendid. Every chair, every table looked as if it had 
been taken from some deserted banqueting-hall. Nothing 
really necessary was lacking in the apartment, but it was 
anything but home-like and cosey, and no one would ever 
have supposed a young girl occupied it, had it not been 
for a large gilt harp that leaned against the long, hard 
couch beside the fireplace. 

Henrica’s head was burning but, though she had 
wrapped a shawl around her lower limbs, her feet were 
freezing on the uncarpeted stone floor. 

A short time after the three gentlemen had entered 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


89 


her aunt’s house, a woman’s figure ascended the stairs 
leading from the first to the second story. Henrica’s 
over-excited senses perceived the light tread of the satin 
shoes and the rustle of the silk train, long before the 
approaching form had reached the room, and with 
quickened breathing, she sat erect. 

A thin hand, without any preliminary knock, now 
opened the door and old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten 
walked up to her niece. 

The elderly dame had once been beautiful, now and 
at this hour she presented a strange, unpleasing appear- 
ance. 

The thin, bent figure was attired in a long trailing 
robe of heavy pink silk. The little head almost disap- 
peared in the ruff, a large structure of immense height 
and width. Long chains of pearls and glittering gems 
hung on the sallow skin displayed by the open neck of her 
dress, and on the false, reddish-yellow curls rested a roll 
of light-blue velvet decked with ostrich plumes. A strong 
odor of various fragrant essences preceded her. She 
herself probably found them somewhat overpowering, 
for her large glittering fan was in constant motion and 
fluttered violently, when in answer to her curt : “ Quick, 
quick,” Henrica returned a resolute “ no, via tante .” 

The old lady, however, was not at all disconcerted 
by the refusal, but merely repeated her “ Quick, quick,” 
more positively, adding as an important reason : 

“ Monseigneur has come and wants to hear you.” 

“ He does me great honor,” replied the young girl, 
“ great honor, but how often must I repeat : I will not 
come.” 

“ Is it allowable to ask why not, my fair one ?” said 
the old lady. 

29 


90 


THE BURGOMASTER S WIFE. 


“ Because I am not lit for your society,” cried Hen- 
rica vehemently, “ because my head aches and my eyes 
burn, because I can’t sing to-day, and because — because 
— because^ — I entreat you, leave me in peace.” 

Old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten let her fan sink by 
her side, and said coolly : 

“ Were you singing two hours ago — yes or no ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then your headache can’t be so very bad, and 
Denise will dress you.” 

“If she comes, I’ll send her away. When I just 
took the harp, I did so to sing the pain away. It was 
relieved for a few minutes, but now my temples are 
throbbing with twofold violence.” 

“ Excuses.” 

“ Believe what you choose. Besides — even if I felt 
better at this moment than a squirrel in the woods. I 
wouldn’t go down to see the gentlemen. I shall stay 
here. I have given my word, and I am a Hoogstraten 
as well as you.” 

Henrica had risen, and her eyes flashed with a 
gloomy fire at her oppressor. The old lady waved her 
fan faster, and her projecting chin trembled. Then 
she said curtly : 

“ Your word of honor! So you won’t! You won’t!” 

“ Certainly not,” cried the young girl with undutiful 
positiveness. 

“ Everybody must have his way,” replied the old 
lady, turning towards the door. “ What is too wilful is 
too wilful. Your father won’t thank you for this.” 

With these words Fraulein Van Hoogstraten raised 
her long train and approached the door. There she 
paused, and again glanced enquiringly at Henrica. The 


THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE. 


9 1 

latter doubtless noticed her aunt's hesitation, but with- 
out heeding the implied threat intentionally turned her 
back. 

As soon as the door closed, the young girl sank back 
into her chair, pressed her forehead against the marble 
slab and let it remain there a long time. Then she rose 
as suddenly and hastily as if obeying some urgent sum- 
mons, raised the lid of her trunk, tossed the stockings, 
bodices and shoes, that came into her way, out on the 
flobr, and did not rise until she had found a few sheets 
of writing-paper which she had laid, before leaving her 
father’s castle, among the rest of her property. 

As she rose from her kneeling posture, she was 
seized with giddiness, but still kept her feet, carried to 
the table first the white sheets and a portfolio, then the 
large inkstand that had already stood several days in 
her room, and seated herself beside it. 

Leaning far back in her chair, she began to write. 
The book that served as a desk lay on her knee, the 
paper on the book. Creaking and pausing, the goose- 
quill made large, stiff letters on the white surface. 
Henrica was not skilled in writing, but to-day it must 
have been unspeakably difficult for her ; her high fore- 
head became covered with perspiration, her mouth was 
distorted by pain, and whenever she had finished a few 
lines, she closed her. eyes or drank greedily from the 
water-pitcher that stood beside her. 

The large room was perfectly still, but the peace that 
surrounded her was often disturbed by strange noises 
and tones, that rose from the dining-hall directly under 
her chamber. The clinking of glasses, shrill tittering, 
loud, deep laughter, single bars of a dissolute love-song, 
cheers, and then the sharp rattle of a shattered wine- 


92 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


glass reached her in mingled sounds. She did not wish 
to hear it, but could not escape and clenched her white 
teeth indignantly. Yet meantime the pen did not 
wholly stop. 

She wrote in broken, or long, disconnected sentences, 
almost incoherently involved. Sometimes there were 
gaps, sometimes the same word was twice or thrice re- 
peated. The whole resembled a letter written by a 
lunatic, yet every line, every stroke of the pen, expressed 
the same desire uttered with passionate longing : “ Take 
me away from here ! Take me away from this woman 
and this house !” 

The epistle was addressed to her father. She im- 
plored him to rescue her from this place, come or send 
for her. “ Her uncle, Matanesse Van Wibisma,” she 
said, “seemed to be a sluggish messenger; he had 
probably enjoyed the evenings at her aunt’s, which filled 
her, Henrica, with loathing. She would go out into the 
world after her sister, if her father compelled her to stay 
here.” Then she began a description of her aunt and 
her life. The picture of the days and nights she had 
now spent for weeks with the old lady, presented in 
vivid characters a mixture of great and petty troubles, 
external and mental humiliations. 

Only too often the same drinking and carousing had 
gone on below as to-day — Henrica had always been 
compelled to join her aunt’s guests, elderly dissolute 
men of French or Italian origin and easy morals. 
While describing these conventicles, the blood crimsoned 
her flushed cheeks still more deeply, and the long strokes 
of the pen grew heavier and heavier. What the abbe 
related and her aunt laughed at, what the Italian 
screamed and Monseigneur smilingly condemned with 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


93 


a slight shake of the head, was so shamelessly bold that 
she would have been defiled by repeating the words. 

Was she a respectable girl or not? She would 
rather hunger and thirst, than be present at such a ban- 
quet again. If the dining-room was empty* other unpre- 
cedented demands were made upon Henrica, for then 
her aunt, who could not endure to be alone a moment, 
was sick and miserable, and she was obliged to nurse 
her. That she gladly and readily served the suffering, 
she wrote, she had sufficiently proved by her attendance 
on the village children when they had the small-pox, 
but if her aunt could not sleep she was compelled to 
watch beside her, hold her hand, and listen until morn- 
ing as she moaned, whined and prayed, sometimes curs- 
ing herself and sometimes the treacherous world. She, 
Henrica, had come to the house strong and well, but 
so much disgust and anger, such constant struggling to 
control herself had robbed her of her health. 

The young girl had written until midnight. The 
letters became more and more irregular and indistinct, 
the lines more crooked, and with the last words : “ My 
head, my poor head ! You will see that I am losing my 
senses. I beseech you, I beseech you, my dear, stem 
father, take me home. I have again heard something 
about Anna — ” her eyes grew dim, her pen dropped 
from her hand, and she fell back in the chair uncon- 
scious. 

There she lay, until the last laugh and sound of rat- 
tling glass had died away below, and her aunt’s guests 
had left the house. 

Denise, the cameriera, noticed the light in the room, 
entered, and after vainly endeavoring to rouse Henrica, 
called her mistress. 


94 


THE BURGOMASTER S WIFE. 


The latter followed the maid, muttering as she 
ascended the stairs : 

“ Fallen asleep, found the time hang heavy — that’s 
all ! She might have been lively and laughed with us i 
Stupid race! ‘ Men of butter,’ King Philip says. That 
wild Lamperi was really impertinent to-night, and the 
abbe said things — things — ” 

The old lady’s large eyes were sparkling vinously, 
and her fan waved rapidly to and fro to cool the flush 
on her cheeks. 

She now stood opposite to Henrica, called her, 
shook her and sprinkled her with perfumed water from 
the large shell, set in gold, which hung as an essence- 
bottle from her belt. When her niece only muttered 
incoherent words, she ordered the maid to bring her 
medicine -chest. 

Denise had gone and Fraulein Van Hoogstraten 
now perceived Henrica’s letter, raised it close to her 
eyes, read page after page with increasing indignation, 
and at last tossed it on the floor and tried to shake her 
niece awake ; but in vain. 

Meantime Belotti had been informed of Henrica’s 
serious illness and, as he liked the young girl, sent for a 
physician on his own responsibility, and instead of the 
family priest summoned Father Damianus. Then he 
went to the sick girl’s chamber. 

Even before he crossed the threshold, the old lady 
in the utmost excitement, exclaimed : 

“ Belotti, what do you say now, Belotti ? Sickness 
in the house, perhaps contagious sickness, perhaps the 
plague.” 

“It seems to be only a fever,” replied the Ital- 
ian soothingly. “ Come, Denise, we will carry the 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


95 


young lady to the bed. The doctor will soon be 
here.” 

“ The doctor ? ” cried the old lady, striking her fan 
on the marble top of the table. “ Who permitted you, 
Belotti — ” 

We are Christians,” interrupted the servant, not 
without dignity. 

“ Very well, very well,” she cried. “ Do what you 
please, call whom you choose, but Henrica can’t stay 
here. Contagion in the house, the plague, a black 
tablet.” 

“ Excellenza is disturbing herself unnecessarily. Let 
us first hear what the doctor says.” 

“ I won’t hear him; I can’t bear the plague and the 
small-pox. Go down at once, Belotti, and have the 
sedan-chair prepared. The old chevalier’s room in the 
rear building is empty.” 

“ But, Excellenza, it’s gloomy, and so damp that 
the north wall is covered with mould.” 

“ Then let it be aired and cleaned. What does this 
delay mean ? You have only to obey. Do you under- 
stand ? ” 

“ The chevalier’s room isn’t fit for my mistress’s sick 
niece,” replied Belotti civilly, but resolutely. 

“ Isn’t it ? And you know exactly ? ” asked his 
mistress scornfully. “ Go down, Denise, and order the 
sedan-chair to be brought up. Have you anything 
more to say, Belotti ? ” 

“ Yes, Padrona,” replied the Italian, in a trembling 
voice. “ I beg your excellenza to dismiss me.” 

“ Dismiss you from my service ?” 

“ With your excellenza’s permission, yes — from your 
service.” 


9 6 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


The old woman started, clasped her hands tightly 
upon her fan, and said : 

“You are irritable, Belotti.” 

“ No, Padrona, but I am old and dread the misfor- 
tune of being ill in this house.” 

Fraulein Van Hoogstraten shrugged her shoulders 
and turning to her maid, cried : 

“The sedan-chair, Denise. You are dismissed, 
Belotti.” 


CHAPTER X. 

The night, on which sorrow and sickness had entered 
the Hoogstraten mansion, was followed by a beautiful 
morning. Holland again became pleasant to the storks, 
that with a loud, joyous clatter flew down into the 
meadows on which the sun was shining. It was one of 
those days the end of April often bestows on men, as if to 
show them that they render her too little, her successor too 
much honor. April can boast that in her house is born 
the spring, whose vigor is only strengthened and beauty 
developed by her blooming heir. 

It was Sunday, and whoever on such a day, while 
the bells are ringing, wanders in Holland over sunny 
paths, through flowery meadows where countless cattle, 
woolly sheep, and idle horses are grazing, meeting 
peasants in neat garments, peasant women with shining 
gold ornaments under snow-white lace caps, citizens in 
gay attire and children released from school, can easily 
fancy that even nature wears a holiday garb and glitters 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


97 

in brighter green, more brilliant blue, and more varied 
ornaments of flowers than on work-days. 

A joyous Sunday mood doubtless filled the minds of 
the burghers, who to-day were out of doors on foot, in 
large over-crowded wooden wagons, or gaily-painted 
boats on the Rhine, to enjoy the leisure hours of the day 
of rest, eat country bread, yellow butter, and fresh 
cheese, or drink milk and cool beer, with their wives 
and children. 

The organist, Wilhelm, had long since finished play- 
ing in the church, but did not wander out into the fields 
with companions of his own age, for he liked to use such 
days for longer excursions, in which walking was out of 
the question. 

They bore him on the wings of the wind over his 
native plains, through the mountains and valleys of Ger- 
many, across the Alps to Italy. A spot propitious for 
such forgetfulness of the present and his daily surround- 
ings, in favor of the past and a distant land, was ready. 
His brothers, Ulrich and Johannes, also musicians, but 
who recognized Wilhelm’s superior talent without envy 
and helped him develop it, had arranged for him, during 
his stay in Italy, a prettily-furnished room in the narrow 
side of the pointed roof of the house, from which a 
broad door led to a little balcony. Here stood a wooden 
bench on which Wilhelm liked to sit, watching the 
flight of his doves, gazing dreamily into the distance or, 
when inclined to artistic creation, listening to the melo- 
dies that echoed in his soul. 

This highest part of the house afforded a beautiful 
prospect ; the view was almost as extensive as the one 
from the top of the citadel, the old Roman tower 
situated in the midst of Leyden. Like a spider in its 


9 8 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


web, Wilhelm’s native city lay in the midst of countless 
streams and canals that intersected the meadows. The 
red brick masonry of the city wall, with its towers and 
bastions, washed by a dark strip of water, encircled the 
pretty place as a diadem surrounds a young girl’s head; 
and like a chaplet of loosely-bound thorns, forts and re- 
doubts extended in wider, frequently broken circles 
around the walls. The citizens’ herds of cattle grazed be- 
tween the defensive fortifications and the city wall, while 
beside and beyond them appeared villages and hamlets. 

On this clear April day, looking towards the north, 
Haarlem lake was visible, and on the west, beyond the 
leafy coronals of the Hague woods, must lie the downs 
which nature had reared for the protection of the country 
against the assaults of the waves. Their long chain of 
hillocks offered a firmer and more unconquerable resist- 
ance to the pressure of the sea, than the earthworks and 
redoubts of Alfen, Leyderdorp and Valkenburg, the 
three forts situated close to the banks of the Rhine, pre- 
sented to hostile armies. The Rhine ! Wilhelm gazed 
down at the shallow, sluggish river, and compared it to 
a king deposed from his throne, who has lost power and 
splendor and now kindly endeavors to dispense benefits 
in little circles with the property that remains. The 
musician was familiar with the noble, undivided German 
Rhine; and often followed it in imagination towards the 
south but more often still his dreams conveyed him 
with a mighty leap to Lake Lugano, the pearl of the 
Western Alps, and when he thought of it and the Medi- 
terranean, beheld rising before his mental vision emerald 
green, azure blue, and golden light; and in such hours 
all his thoughts were transformed within his breast into 
harmonies and exquisite music. 


THE BURGOMASTER S WIFE. 


99 


And his journey from Lugano to Milan ! The con- 
veyance that bore him to Leonardo’s city was plain and 
overcrowded, but in it he had found Isabella. And 
Rome, Rome, eternal, never-to-be-forgotten Rome, 
where so long as we dwell there, we grow out of our- 
selves, increase in strength and intellectual power, and 
which makes us wretched with longing when it lies 
behind us. 

By the Tiber Wilhelm had first thoroughly learned 
what art, his glorious art was ; here, near Isabella, a 
new world had opened to him, but a sharp frost had 
passed over the blossoms of his heart that had unfolded 
in Rome, and he knew they were blighted and could 
bear no fruit — yet to-day he succeeded in recalling her 
in her youthful beauty, and instead of the lost love, 
thinking of the kind friend Isabella and dreaming of a 
sky blue as turquoise, of slender columns and bubbling 
fountains, olive groves and marble statues, cool churches 
and gleaming villas, sparkling eyes and fiery wine, mag- 
nificent choirs and Isabella’s singing. 

The doves that cooed and clucked, flew away and 
returned to the cote beside him, could now do as they 
chose, their guardian neither saw nor heard them. 

Allertssohn, the fencing-master, ascended the ladder 
to his watch-tower, but he did not notice him until he 
stood on the balcony by his side, greeting him with his 
deep voice. 

“Where have we been, Herr Wilhelm?” asked 
the old man. “ In this cloth-weaving Leyden ? No! 
Probably with the goddess of music on Olympus, if she 
has her abode there.” 

“ Rightly guessed,” replied Wilhelm, pushing the 
hair back from his forehead with both hands. “ I 

/ 


IOO 


THE BURGOMASTER S WIFE. 


have been visiting her, and she sends you a friendly 
greeting.” 

“ Then offer one from me in return,” replied the 
other, “ but she usually belongs to the least familiar of 
my acquaintances. My throat is better suited to drink- 
ing than singing. Will you allow me ? ” 

The fencing-master raised the jug of beer which 
Wilhelm’s mother filled freshly every day and placed in 
her darling’s room, and took a long pull. Then wiping 
his moustache, he said : 

“ That did me good, and I needed it. The men 
wanted to go out pleasuring and omit their drill, but we 
forced them to go through it, Junker von Warmond, 
Duivenvoorde and I. Who knows how soon it may 
be necessary to show what we can do. Roland, my 
fore man, such imprudence is like a cudgel, against 
which one can do nothing with Florentine rapiers, clever 
tierce and quarte. My wheat is destroyed by the hail.” 

“ Then let it lie, and see if the barley and clover 
don’t do better,” replied Wilhelm gaily, tossing vetches 
and grains of wheat to a large dove that had alighted 
on the parapet of his tower. 

“It eats, and what use is it?” cried Allertssohn, 
looking at the dove. “ Herr von Warmond, a young 
man after God’s own heart, has just brought me two 
falcons ; do you want to see how I tame them ? ” 

“ No, Captain, I have enough to do with my music 
and my doves.” 

“ That is your affair. The long-necked one yonder 
is a queer-looking fellow.” 

“And of what country is he probably a native? 
There he goes to join the others. Watch him a little 
while and then answer me.” 


THE BURGOMASTER S WIFE. 


IOI 


Ask King Soloman that ; he was on intimate terms 
with birds.” 

“ Only watch him, you’ll find out presently.” 

“ The fellow has a stiff neck, and holds his head un- 
usually high.” 

“ And his beak ?” 

“ Curved, almost like a hawk’s ! Zounds, why does 
the creature strut about with its toes so far apart ? 
Stop, bandit ! He’ll peck that little dove to death. As 
true as I live, the saucy rascal must be a Spaniard !” 

“ Right, it is a Spanish dove. It flew to me, but I 
can’t endure it and drive it away ; for I keep only a few 
pairs of the same breed and try to get the best birds pos- 
sible. Whoever raises many different kinds in the 
same cote, will accomplish nothing.” 

“ That gives food for thought. But I believe you 
haven’t chosen the handsomest species.” 

“ No, sir. What you see are a cross between the 
carrier and tumblers, the Antwerp breed of carrier- 
pigeons. Bluish, reddish, spotted birds. I don’t care 
for the colors, but they must have small bodies and large 
wings, with broad quills on their flag-feathers, and 
above all ample muscular strength. The one yonder — 
stop, I’ll catch him — is one of my best flyers. Try to 
lift his pinions.” 

“ Heaven knows the little thing has marrow in its 
bones! How the tiny wing pinches; the falcons are 
not much stronger.” 

“ It’s a carrier-dove too, that finds its way alone.” 

“ Why do you keep no white tumblers ? I should 
think they could be watched farthest in their flight.” 

“ Because doves fare like men. Whoever shines 
very brightly and is seen from a distance, is set upon by 


102 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


opponents and envious people, and birds of prey pounce 
upon the white doves first. I tell you, Captain, whoever 
has eyes in his head, can learn in a dove-cote how 
things come to pass among Adam and Eve’s posterity 
on earth.” 

“There is quarrelling and kissing up here just as 
there is in Leyden.” 

“ Yes, exactly the same, Captain. If I mate an old 
dove with one much younger, it rarely turns out well. 
When the male dove is in love, he understands how to 
pay his fair one as many attentions, as the most elegant 
gallant shows the mistress of his heart. And do you 
know what the kissing means ? The suitor feeds his 
darling, that is, seeks to win her affection by beautiful 
gifts. Then the wedding comes, and they build a nest. 
If there are young birds, they feed them together in per- 
fect harmony. The aristocratic doves brood badly, and 
we put their eggs under birds of more ordinary breed.” 

“ Those are the noble ladies, who have nurses for 
their infants.” 

“ Unmated doves often make mischief among the 
mated ones.” 

“ Take warning, young man, and beware of being a 
bachelor. I’ll say nothing against the girls who remain 
unmarried, for I have found among them many sweet, 
helpful souls.” 

“ So have I, but unfortunately some bad ones too, 
as well as here in the dove-cote. On the whole my 
wards lead happy married lives, but if it comes to a sep- 
aration — ” 

“ Which of the two is to blame ? ” 

“ Nine times out of ten the little wife.” 

“ Roland, my fore man, exactly as it is among 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


I03 


human beings,” cried the fencing-master, clapping his 
hands. 

“ What do you mean by your Roland, Herr Allerts ? 
You promised me a short time ago — but who is coming 
up the ladder ? ” 

“ I hear your mother.” 

“ She is bringing me a visitor. I know that voice — 
and yet. Wait. It’s old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten’s 
steward.” 

“ From Nobelstrasse ? Let me go, Wilhelm, for this 
Glipper crew — ” 

“ Wait a little while, there is only room for one on 
the ladder,” said the musician, holding out his hand to 
Belotti to guide him from the last rung into his room. 

“ Spaniards and the allies of Spain,” muttered the 
fencing-master, opened the door, and called while de- 
scending the ladder: “ I’ll wait down below till the air 
is pure again.” 

The steward’s handsome face, usually smoothly 
shaven with the most extreme care, was to-day covered 
with a stubbly beard, and the old man looked sad and 
worn, as he began to tell Wilhelm what had occurred 
in his mistress’s house since the evening of the day 
before. 

“Years may make a hot-tempered person weaker, 
but not calmer,” said the Italian, continuing his story. 
“ I can’t look on and see the poor angel, for she isn’t far 
from the Virgin’s throne, treated like a sick dog that is 
flung out into the court-yard, so I got my discharge.” 

“ That does you honor, but was rather out of place 
just now. And has the young lady really been carried 
to the damp room ?” 

No, sir, Father Damian us came and made the old 


104 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


excellenza understand what the holy Virgin expected of a 
Christian, and when the padrona still tried to carry out 
her will, the holy man spoke to her in words so harsh 
and stern that she yielded. The signorina is now lying 
in bed with burning cheeks, raving in delirium.” 

“ And who is attending the patient ?” 

“ I came to you about the physician, my dear sir, for 
Doctor de Bont, who instantly obeyed my summons, 
was treated so badly by the old excellenza, that he 
turned his back upon her and told me, at the door of 
the house, he wouldn’t come again.” 

Wilhelm shook his head, and the Italian continued : 

“There are other doctors in Leyden, but Father 
Damianus says de Bont or Bontius, as they call him, is 
the most skilful and learned of them all, and * as the old 
excellenza herself had an attack of illness about noon, 
and certainly won’t leave her bed very speedily, the way 
is open, and Father Damianus says he’ll go to Doctor 
Bontius himself if necessary. But as you are a native 
of the city and acquainted with the signorina, I wanted 
to spare him the rebuff he would probably meet from the 
foe of our holy Church. The poor man has enough to 
suffer from good-for-nothing boys and scoffers, when he 
goes through the city with the sacrament.” 

“You know people are strictly forbidden to disturb 
him in the exercise of his calling.” 

“ Yet he can’t show himself in the street without 
being jeered. We two cannot change the world, sir. 
So long as the Church had the upper hand, she burned 
and quartered you, now you have the power here, our 
priests are persecuted and scorned.” 

“ Against the law and the orders of the magistrates.” 

“ You can’t control the people, and Father Dami- 


THE BURGOMASTER’S ^IFE. 105 

anus is a lamb, who bears everything patiently, as good 
a Christian as many saints before whom we burn 
candles. Do you know the doctor ?” 

“ A little, by sight.” 

“ Oh, then go to him, sir, for the young lady’s sake,” 
cried the old man earnestly. “ It is in your power to save 
a human life, a beautiful young life.” 

The steward’s eyes glittered with tears. As Wil- 
helm laid his hand on his arm, saying kindly: “ I will 
try,” the fencing-master called: “Your council is lasting 
too long for me. I’ll come another time.” 

“ No, Meister, come up a minute. This gentleman 
is here on account of a poor sick girl. The poor, help- 
less creature is now lying without any care, for her aunt, 
old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten, has driven Doctor de 
Bont from her bed because he is a Calvinist.” 

“ From the sick girl’s bed ?” 

“ It’s abominable enough, but the old lady is now 
ill herself.” 

“ Bravo, bravo ! ” cried the fencing-master, clapping 
his hands. “ If the devil himself isn’t afraid of her and 
wants to fetch her, I’ll pay for his post-horses. But the 
girl, the sick girl ? ” 

“ Herr Belotti begs me to persuade de Bont to visit 
her again. Are you on friendly terms with the doctor?” 

“I was, Wilhelm, I was; but — last Friday we had 
some sharp words about the new morions, and now the 
learned demi-god demands an apology from me, but to 
sound a retreat isn’t written here — ” 

“Oh, my dear sir,” cried Belotti, with touching ear- 
nestness. “ The poor child is lying helpless in a raging 
fever. If Heaven has blessed you with children — ” 

“ Be calm, old man, be calm,” replied the fencing- 
30 


106 THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE* 

master, stroking Belotti’s grey hair kindly. My children 
are nothing to you, but we’ll do what we can for the 
young girl. Farewell till we meet again, gentlemen. 
Roland, my fore man, what shall we live to see! Hemp 
is still cheap in Holland, and yet such a monster has 
lived amongst us to be as old as a raven.” 

With these words he went down the ladder. On 
reaching the street, he pondered over the words in which 
he should apologize to Doctor Bontius, with a face as 
sour as if he had wormwood in his mouth ; but his eyes 
and bearded lips smiled. 

His learned friend made the apology easy for him, 
and when Belotti came home, he found the doctor by 
the sick girl’s bed. 


CHAPTER XL 

Frau Elizabeth von Nordwyk and Frau Van 
Hout had each asked the burgomaster’s wife to go into 
the country with them to enjoy the beautiful spring day, 
but in spite of Barbara’s persuasions, Maria could not 
be induced to accept their invitation. 

A week had elapsed since her husband’s departure, a 
week whose days had run their course from morning to 
evening as slowly as the brackish water in one of the 
canals, intersecting the meadows of Holland, flowed to- 
wards the river. 

Sleep loves the couches of youth, and had again 
found hers, but with the rising of the sun the dissatisfac- 
tion, anxiety and secret grief, that slumber had kindly 
interrupted, once more returned, She felt that it was 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


I°7 

not right, and her father would have blamed her if he 
had seen her thus. 

There are women who are ashamed of rosy cheeks, 
unrestrained joy in life, to whom the emotion of sorrow 
affords a mournful pleasure. To this class Maria cer- 
tainly did not belong. She would fain have been happy, 
and left untried no means of regaining the lost joy of 
her heart. Honestly striving to do her duty, she 
returned to little Bessie ; but the child was rapidly re- 
covering and called for Barbara, Adrian or Trautchen, 
as soon as she was left alone with her. 

She tried to read, but the few books she had brought 
from Delft were all familiar, and her thoughts, ere be- 
coming fixed on the old volumes, pursued their own 
course. 

Wilhelm brought her the new motet, and she en- 
deavored to sing it ; but music demands whole hearts 
from those who desire to enjoy her gifts, and therefore 
melody and song refused comfort as well as pleasure to 
her, whose mind was engrossed by wholly different things. 
If she helped Adrian in his work, her patience failed 
much sooner than usual. On the first market-day, she 
went out with Trautchen to obey her husband’s direc- 
tions and make purchases and, while shopping at the 
various places where different wares were offered — here 
fish, yonder meat or vegetables, amid the motley crowd, 
hailed on every side by cries of : “ Here, Frau Biirger- 
meisterin! I have what you want, Frau Biirger- 
meisterin !” forgot the sorrow that oppressed her. 

With newly-animated self-reliance, she examined 
flour, pulse and dried fish, making it a point of honor 
to bargain carefully ; Barbara should see that she knew 
how to buy. The crowd was very great everywhere, 


108 THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 

for the city magistrates had issued a proclamation bid- 
ding every household, in view of the threatened danger, 
to supply itself abundantly with provisions on all the 
market-days; but the purchasers made way for the 
burgomaster’s pretty young wife, and this too pleased 
her. 

She returned home with a bright face, happy in hav- 
ing done her best, and instantly went into the kitchen 
to see Barbara. 

Peter’s good-natured sister had plainly perceived 
how sorely her young sister-in-law’s heart was troubled, 
and therefore gladly saw her go out to make her pur- 
chases. Choosing and bargaining would surely dispel 
her sorrows and bring other thoughts. True, the 
cautious house-keeper, who expected everything good, 
from Maria except the capacity of showing herself an 
able, clever mistress of the house, had charged Trautchen 
to warn her mistress against being cheated. But when 
in market the demand is two or three times greater than 
the supply, prices rise, and so it happened that when 
Maria told the widow how much she had paid for this 
or that article, Barbara’s “ My child, that’s perfectly un- 
heard-of!” or, “It’s enough to drive us to beggary,” 
followed each other in quick succession. 

These exclamations, which under the circumstances 
were usually entirely unjustifiable, vexed Maria; but she 
wished to be at peace with her sister-in-law, and though 
it was hard to bear injustice, it was contrary to her 
nature and would have caused her pain to express her 
indignation in violent words. So she merely said with 
a little excitement : 

“ Please ask what other ladies are paying, and then 
scold, if you think it right.” 


the Burgomaster’s wife. 


109 


With these words she left the kitchen. 

“ My child, I’m not scolding at all,” Barbara called 
after her, but Maria would not hear, hastily ascended 
the stairs and locked herself into her room. Her joy- 
ousness had again vanished. 

On Sunday she went to church. After dinner she 
filled a canvas-bag with provisions for Adrian, who was 
going on a boating excursion with several friends, and 
then sat at the window in her chamber. 

Stately men, among them many members of the 
council, passed by with their gaily-dressed wives and 
children ; young girls with flowers in their bosoms 
moved arm in arm, by twos and threes, along the foot- 
path beside the canal, to dance in the village outside 
the Zyl-Gate. They walked quietly forward with eyes 
discreetly downcast, but many a cheek flushed and 
many an ill-suppressed smile hovered around rosy lips, 
when the youths, who followed the girls moving so de- 
corously along, as gaily and swiftly as sea-gulls flutter 
around a ship, uttered teasing jests, or whispered into 
their ears words that no third party need hear. 

All who were going towards the Zyl-Gate seemed 
gay and careless, every face showed what joyous hours 
in the open air and sunny meadows were anticipated. 
The object that attracted them appeared beautiful and 
desirable to Maria also, but what should she do among 
the happy, how could she be alone amid strangers with 
her troubled heart ? The shadows of the houses seemed 
especially dark to-day, the air of the city heavier than 
usual, as if the spring had come to every human being, 
great and small, old and young, except herself. 

The buildings and the trees that bordered the Ach- 
tergracht were already casting longer shadows, and the 


I 10 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


golden mists hovering over the roofs began to be 
mingled with a faint rosy light, when Maria heard a 
horseman trotting up the street. She drew herself up 
rigidly and her heart throbbed violently. She would not 
receive Peter any differently from usual, she must be 
frank to. him and show him how she felt, and that mat- 
ters could not go on so, nay she was already trying to 
find fitting words for what she had to say to him. Just 
at that moment, the horse stopped before the door. She 
went to the window, saw her husband swing himself 
from the saddle and look joyously up to the window of 
her room and, though she made no sign of greeting, her 
heart drew her towards him. Every thought, every 
fancy was forgotten, and with winged steps she flew 
dow r n the corridor to the stairs. Meantime he had en- 
tered, and she called his name. “ Maria, child, are you 
there !” he shouted, rushed up the steps as nimbly as a 
youth, met her on one of the upper stairs and drew her 
with overflowing tenderness to his heart. 

“ At last, at last, 1 have you again ! ” he cried joy- 
ously, pressing his lips to her eyes and her fragrant 
hair. She had clasped her hands closely around his 
neck, but he released himself, held them in his, and 
asked : “ Are Barbara and Adrian at home?” 

She shook her head. 

The burgomaster laughed, stooped, lifted her up like 
a child, and carried her into his room. As a beautiful 
tree beside a burning house is seized by the neighboring 
flames, although immediately protected with cold water, 
Maria, in spite of her long-cherished resolve to receive 
him coolly, was overwhelmed by the warmth of her 
husband’s feelings. She cordially rejoiced in having him 
once more, and willingly believed him, as he told her in 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


Ill 


loving words how painfully he had felt their separation, 
how sorely he had missed her, and how distinctly he, 
who usually lacked the ability to remember an absent 
person, had had her image before his eyes. 

How warmly, with what convincing tones he under- 
stood how to give expression to his love to-day ! She 
was still a happy wife, and showed him that she was 
without reserve. 

Barbara and Adrian returned home, and there was 
now much to tell at the evening meal. Peter had had 
many a strange experience on the journey, and gained 
fresh hope, the boy had distinguished himself at school, 
and Bessie’s sickness might already be called a danger 
happily overcome. Barbara was radiant with joy, for 
all seemed well between Maria and her brother. 

The beautiful April night passed pleasantly away. 

When Maria was braiding black velvet into her hair 
the next morning, she was full of grateful emotion, for she 
had found courage to tell Peter that she desired to have 
a larger share in his anxieties than before, and received a 
kind assent. A worthier, richer life, she hoped, would 
now begin. He was to tell her this very day what he 
had discussed and accomplished with the Prince and at 
Dortrecht, for hitherto no word of all this had escaped 
his lips. 

Barbara, who was moving about in the kitchen and 
just on the point of catching three chickens to kill them, 
let them live a little longer, and even tossed half a 
handful of barley into their coop, as she heard her sister- 
in-law come singing down-stairs. The broken bars ol 
Wilhelm’s last madrigal sounded as sweet and full of 
promise as the first notes of the nightingale, which the 
gardener hears at the end of a long winter. It was 


112 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


spring again in the house, and her pleasant round face, 
in its large cap, looked as bright and unclouded as a 
sunflower amid its green leaves, as she called to Maria : 

“ This is a good day for you, child ; we’ll melt down 
the butter and salt the hams.” 

The words sounded as joyous as if she had offered 
her an invitation to Paradise, and Maria willingly helped 
in the work, which began at once. When the widow 
moved her hands, tongues could not remain silent, and 
the conversation that had probably taken place between 
Peter and his wife excited her curiosity not a little. 

She turned the conversation upon him cleverly 
enough, and, as if accidentally, asked the question : 

“ Did he apologize for his departure on the anni- 
versary of your wedding-day ? ” 

“ I know the reason ; he could not stay.” 

“ Of course not, of course not ; but whoever is green 
the goats eat. We mustn’t allow the men to go too far. 
Give, but take also. An injustice endured is a florin, 
for which in marriage a calf can be bought.” 

“ I will not bargain with Peter, and if anything 
weighed heavily on my mind, I have willingly forgotten 
it after so long a separation.” 

“ Wet hay may destroy a barn, and any one to whom 
the hare runs can catch him ! People ought not to keep 
their troubles to themselves, but tell them; that’s why 
they have tongues, and yesterday was the right time to 
make a clean breast of everything that grieves you.” 

“ He was in such a joyous mood when he came 
home, and then : Why do you think I feel unhappy ? ” 

“ Unhappy. Who said so.?” 

Maria blushed, but the widow seized the knife and 
opened the hen-coop. 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 113 

Trautchen was helping the two ladies in the kitchen, 
but she was frequently interrupted in her work, for this 
morning the knocker on the door had no rest, and those 
who entered must have brought the burgomaster no 
pleasant news, for his deep, angry voice was often 
audible. 

His longest discussion was with Herr Van Hout, 
who had come to him, not only to ask questions and 
tell what occurred, but also to make complaints. 

It was no ordinary spectacle, when these two men, 
who, towering far above their fellow-citizens, not only 
in stature, but moral earnestness and enthusiastic devo- 
tion to the cause of liberty, declared their opinions and 
expressed their wrath. The inflammable, restless Van 
Hout took the first part, the slow, steadfast Van der 
Werff, with mighty impressiveness, the second. 

A bad disposition ruled among the fathers of the 
city, the rich men of old families, the great weavers and 
brewers, for to them property, life and consideration 
were more than religion and liberty, while the poor men, 
who laboriously supported their families by the sweat of 
their brows, were joyously determined to sacrifice money 
and blood for the good cause. 

There was obstacle after obstacle to conquer. The 
scaffolds and barns, frames and all other wood-work that 
could serve to conceal a man, were to be levelled to the 
earth, as all the country-houses and other buildings near 
the city had formerly been. Much newly-erected wood- 
work was already removed, but the rich longest resisted 
having the axe put to theirs. New earthworks had 
been commenced at the important fort of Valkenburg ; 
but part of the land, where the workmen were obliged 
to dig, belonged to a brewer, who demanded a large 


1 14 THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 

sum in compensation for his damaged meadow. Wlun 
the siege was raised in March, paper-money was re- 
stored, round pieces of pasteboard, one side of which 
bore the Netherland lion, with the inscription, “ Haec 
libertatis ergo” while the other had the coat-of-arms of 
the city and the motto “ God guard Leyden.” These 
were intended to be exchanged for coin or provisions, but 
rich speculators had obtained possession of many pieces, 
and were trying to raise their value. Demands of every 
kind pressed upon him, and amid all these claims the 
burgomaster was also compelled to think of his own 
affairs, for all intercourse with the outside world would 
soon be cut off, and it was necessary to settle many 
things with the representative of his business in Ham- 
burg. Great losses were threatening, but he left no 
means untried to secure for his family what might yet be 
saved. 

He rarely saw wife or children ; yet thought he was 
fulfilling the promise Maria had obtained from him the 
evening after his return, when he briefly answered her 
questions or voluntarily gave her such sentences as: 
“There was warm work at the town-hall to-day!” or, “It 
is more difficult to circulate the paper-money than we 
expected !” He did not feel the kindly necessity of hav- 
ing a confidante and expressing his feelings, and his first 
wife had been perfectly contented and happy, if he sat si- 
lently beside her during quiet hours, called her his treasure, 
petted the children, or even praised her cracknels and 
Sunday roast. Business and public affairs had been his 
concern, the kitchen and nursery hers. What they had 
shared, was the consciousness of the love one felt for the 
other, their children, the distinction, honors and posses- 
sions of the household, 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


1 *5 


Maria asked more and he was ready to grant it, but 
when in the evening she pressed the wearied man with 
questions he was accustomed to hear only from the lips 
of men, he put her off for the answers till less busy times, 
or fell asleep in the midst of her inquiries. 

She saw how many burdens oppressed him, how un- 
weariedly he toiled — but why did he not move a portion 
of the load to other shoulders ? 

Once, during the beautiful spring weather, he went 
out with her into the country. She seized upon the op- 
portunity to represent that it was his duty to himself and 
her to gain more rest. 

He listened patiently, and when she had finished her 
entreaty and warnings, took her hand in his, saying : 

“ You have met Herr Marnix von St. Aldegonde 
and know what the cause of liberty owes him. Do you 
know his motto ?” 

She nodded and answered softly : “ Repos ailleurs 

“Where else can we rest,” he repeated firmly. 

A slight shiver ran through her limbs, and as she 
withdrew hbr hands, she could not help thinking: 
“ Where else ; — so not here. Rest and happiness have 
no home here.” She did not utter the words, but could 
not drive them from her mind. 


CHAPTER XII. 

,il •: / l '<!'.•». '*!.!; b:/t- ■ >■ 

During these May days the Hoogstraten mansion 
was the quietest of all the houses in quiet Nobelstrasse. 
By the orders of Doctor Bontius and the sick lady’s at- 
torney, a mixture of straw and sand lay on the cause : 


Il6 THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 

way before it. The windows were closely curtained, and 
a piece of felt hung between the door and the knocker. 
The door was ajar, but a servant sat close behind it to 
answer those who sought admission. 

On a morning early in May the musician, Wilhelm 
Corneliussohn, and Janus Dousa turned the corner of 
Nobelstrasse. Both men were engaged in eager conver- 
sation, but as they approached the straw and sand, their 
voices became lower and then ceased entirely. 

“ The carpet we spread under the feet of the con- 
queror Death,” said the nobleman. “ I hope he will 
lower the torch only once here and do honor to age, lit- 
tle worthy of respect as it may be. Don’t stay too long 
in the infected house, Herr Wilhelm.” 

The musician gently opened the door. The servant 
silently greeted him and turned towards the stairs to call 
Belotti; for the “player-man” had already enquired 
more than once for the steward. 

Wilhelm entered the little room where he usually 
waited, and for the first time found another visitor there, 
but in a somewhat peculiar attitude. Father Damianus 
sat bolt upright in an arm-chair, with his head drooping 
on one side, sound asleep. The face of the priest, a man 
approaching his fortieth year, was as pink and white 
as a child’s, and framed by a thin light-brown beard. A 
narrow circle of thin light hair surrounded his large 
tonsure, and a heavy dark rosary of olive-wood beads 
hung from the sleeper’s hands. A gentle, kindly smile 
hovered around his half-parted lips. 

“ This mild saint in long woman’s robes doesn’t look 
as if he could grasp anything strongly” thought Wilhelm, 
“ yet his hands are callous and have toiled hard.” 

When Belotti entered the room and saw the sleeping 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


7 


priest, he carefully pushed a pillow under his head and 
beckoned to Wilhelm to follow him into the entry. 

“ We won’t grudge him a little rest,” said the Italian. 
“ He has sat beside the padrona’s bed from yesterday 
noon until two hours ago. Usually she doesn’t know 
what is going on around her, but as soon as conscious- 
ness returns she wants religious consolation. She still 
refuses to take the sacrament for the dying, for she won’t 
admit that she is approaching her end. Yet often, when 
the disease attacks her more sharply, she asks in mortal 
terror if everything is ready, for she is afraid to die with- 
out extreme unction.” 

“ And how is Fraulein Henrica ?” 

“ A very little better.” 

The priest had now come out of the little room. 
Belotti reverently kissed his hand and Wilhelm bowed 
respectfully. 

“ I had fallen asleep,” said Damian us simply and 
naturally, but in a voice less deep and powerful than 
would have been expected from his broad breast and 
tall figure. “ I will read the mass, visit my sick, and then 
return. Have you thought better of it, Belotti ?” 

“ It won’t do sir, the Virgin knows it won’t do. My 
dismissal was given for the first of May, this is the 
eighth, and yet I’m still here — I haven’t left the house 
because I’m a Christian ! Now the ladies have a good 
physician, Sister Gonzaga is doing her duty, you your- 
self will earn by your nursing a place among the martyrs 
in Paradise, so, without making myself guilty of a sin, I 
can tie up my bundle.” 

“ You will not go, Belotti,” said the priest firmly. “If 
you still insist on having your own way, at least do not 
call yourself a Christian.” 


the burgomaster’s wife. 


i 18 


“ You will stay,” cried Wilhelm, “ if only for the sake 
of the young lady, to whom you still feel kindly.” 

Belotti shook his head, and answered quietly : 

“ You can add nothing, young sir, to what the holy 
Father represented to me yesterday. But my mind is 
made up, I shall go ; yet as I value the holy Father’s 
good opinion and yours, I beg you to do me the favor 
to listen to me. I have passed my sixty-second birth- 
day, and an old horse or an old servant stands a long 
time in the market-place before any one will buy them. 
There might probably be a place in Brussels for a 
Catholic steward, who understands his business, but this 
old heart longs to return to Naples — ardently, ardently, 
unutterably. You have seen our blue sea and our sky, 
young sir, and I yearn for them, but even more for 
other, smaller things. It now seems a joy that I can 
speak in my native language to you, Herr Wilhelm, and 
you, holy Father. But there is a country where every one 
uses the same tongue that I do. There is a little village 
at the foot of Vesuvius — merciful Heavens ! Many a 
person w r ould be afraid to stay there, even half an hour, 
when the mountain quakes, the ashes fall in showers, 
and the glowing lava pours out in a stream. The 
houses there are by no means so well built, and the 
window-panes are not so clean as in this country. I 
almost fear that there are few glass windows in Resina, 
but the children don’t freeze, any more than they do 
here. What would a Leyden house-keeper say to our 
village streets ? Poles with vines, boughs of fig-trees, 
and all sorts of under-clothing on the roofs, at the win- 
dows, and the crooked, sloping balconies; orange and 
lemon-trees with golden fruit grow in the little gar- 
dens, which have neither straight paths nor symmetrical 


the burgomaster’s wife. 


119 

beds. Everything there grows together topsy-turvy. 
The boys, who in rags that no tailor has darned or 
mended, clamber over the white vineyard walls, the 
little girls, whose mothers comb their hair before the 
doors of the houses, are not so pink and white, nor so 
nicely washed as the Holland children, but I should 
like to see again the brown-skinned, black-haired little 
ones with the dark eyes, and end my days amid all the 
clatter in the warm air, among my nephews, nieces and 
blood-relations.” 

As he uttered these words, the old man’s features 
had flushed and his black eyes sparkled with a fire, that 
but a short time before the northern air and his long 
years of servitude seemed to have extinguished. Since 
neither the priest nor the musician answered immediately, 
he continued more quietly : 

“ Monseigneur Gloria is going to Italy now, and I 
can accompany him to Rome as courier. From thence 
I can easily reach Naples, and live there on the interest 
of my . savings free from care. My future master will 
leave on the 15th, and on the 125th I must be in Ant- 
werp, where I am to meet him.” 

The eyes of the priest and the musician met. Wil- 
helm lacked courage to seek to withhold the steward from 
carrying out his plan, but Damianus summoned up 
his resolution, laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder, 
and said : 

“ If you wait here a few weeks more, Belotti, you 
will find the true rest, the peace of a good conscience. 
The crown of life is promised to those, who are faithful 
unto death. When these sad days are over, it will be 
easy to smooth the way to your home. We shall meet 
again towards noon, Belotti. If my assistance is neces- 


120 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


sary, send for me ; old Ambrosius knows where to find 
me. May God’s blessing rest upon you, and if you will 
accept it from me, on you also, Meister Wilhelm.” 

After the priest had left the house, Belotti said, sigh- 
ing: 

“ He’ll yet force me to yield to his will. He abuses 
his power over souls. I’m no saint, and what he asks 
of me — ” 

“ Is right,” said Wilhelm firmly. 

“ But you don’t know what it is to throw away, like 
a pair of worn-out shoes, the dearest hope of a long, sad 
life. And for whom, I ask you, for whom ? Do you 
know my padrona ? Oh ! sir, I have experienced 
in this house things, which your youth does not dream 
could be possible. The young lady has wounded you. 
Am I right or wrong ?” 

“You are mistaken, Belotti.” 

“ Really ? I am glad for your sake, you are a modest 
artist, but the signorina bears the Hoogstraten name, 
and that is saying everything. Do you know her 
father ?” 

“ No, Belotti.” 

“ That’s a race — a race ! Have you never heard 
anything of the story of our signorina’s older sister ?” 

“ Has Henrica an older sister ?” 

“ Yes, sir, and when I think of her. — Imagine the 
signorina, exactly like our signorina, only taller, more 
stately, more beautiful.” 

“ Isabella !” exclaimed the musician. A conjecture, 
which had been aroused since his conversation with 
Henrica, appeared to be confirmed; he seized the 
steward’s arm so suddenly and unexpectedly, that the 
latter drew back, and continued eagerly : “ What do 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


I 2 I 


you know of her? I beseech you, Belotti, tell me 
all.” 

The servant looked up the stairs, then shaking his 
head, answered : 

“ You are probably mistaken. There has never been 
an Isabella in this house to my knowledge, but I will 
gladly place myself at your service. Come again after 
sunset, but you must expect to hear no pleasant tale.” 

Twilight had scarcely yielded to darkness, when the 
musician again entered the Hoogstraten mansion. The 
little room was empty, but Belotti did not keep him 
waiting long. 

The old man placed a dainty little waiter, bearing a 
jug of wine and a goblet, on the table beside the lamp 
and, after informing Wilhelm of the invalids’ condition, 
courteously offered him a chair. When the musician 
asked him why he had not brought a cup for himself 
too, he replied : 

“ I drink nothing but water, but allow me to take the 
liberty to sit down. The servant who attends to the 
chambers has left the house, and I’ve done nothing but 
go up and down stairs all day. It tries my old legs, and 
we can expect no quiet night.” 

A single candle lighted the little room. Belotti, 
who had leaned far back in his chair, opened his 
clenched hands and slowly began : 

“ I spoke this morning of the Hoogstraten race. 
Children of the same parents, it is true, are often very un- 
like, but in your little country, which speaks its own 
language and has many things peculiar to itself — you 
won’t deny that — every old family has its special traits. 
I know, for I have been in many a noble household in 
Holland. Every race has its own peculiar blood and 
3i 


22 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


ways. Even where — by your leave — there is a crack in 
the brain, it rarely happens to only one member of a 
family. My mistress has more of her French mother’s 
nature. But I intended to speak only of the signorina, 
and am wandering too far from my subject.” 

“ No, Belotti, certainly not, we have plenty of time, 
and I shall be glad to listen to you, but first you must 
answer one question.” 

“ Why, sir, how your cheeks glow ! Did you meet 
the signorina in Italy ? ” 

“ Perhaps so, Belotti.” 

“ Why, of course, of course ! Whoever has once 
seen her, doesn’t easily forget. What is it you wish to 
know ?” 

“ First, the lady’s name.” 

“ Anna.” 

“ And not Isabella also ?” 

“ No, sir, she was never called anything but Anna.” 

“ And when did she leave Holland ? ” 

“ Wait; it was — four years ago last Easter.” 

“ Has she dark, brown or fair hair ?” 

“ I’ve said already that she looked just like Fraulein 
Henrica. But what lady might not have fair, brown or 
dark hair ? I think we shall reach the goal sooner, if 
you will let me ask a question now. Had the lady you 
mean a large semi-circular scar just under the hair, ex- 
actly in the middle of her forehead ? ” 

“ Enough,” cried Wilhelm, rising hastily. “ She fell 
on one of her father’s weapons when a child.” 

“ On the contrary, sir, the handle of Junker Van 
Hoogstraten’s weapon fell on the forehead of his own 
daughter. How horrified you look ! Oh ! I have wit- 
nessed worse things in this house. Now it is your turn 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


I *3 

again : In what city of my home did you meet the 
signorina ?” 

“ In Rome, alone and under an assumed name. 
Isabella — a Holland girl! Pray go on with your story, 
Belotti ; I won’t interrupt you again. What had the 
child done, that her own father — ” 

“ He is the wildest of all the wild Hoogstratens. 
Perhaps you may have seen men like him in Italy — 
in this country you might seek long for such a hurri- 
cane. You must not think him an evil-disposed man, 
but a word that goes against the grain, a look askance 
will rob him of his senses, and things are done which he 
repents as soon as they are over. The signorina received 
her scar in the same way. She was a mere child, and 
of course ought not to have touched fire-arms, neverthe- 
less she did whenever she could, and once a pistol went 
off and the bullet struck one of the best hunting-dogs. 
Her father heard the report and, when he saw the ani- 
mal lying on the ground and the pistol at the little girl’s 
feet, he seized it and with the sharp-edged handle 
struck — ” 

“ A child, his own daughter!” exclaimed Wilhelm in- 
dignantly. 

“ People are differently constituted,” Belotti con- 
tinued. u Some, the class to which you probably belong, 
cautiously consider before they speak or act ; the second 
reflect a long time and, when they are ready, pour forth 
a great many words, but rarely act at all ; while the 
third, and at their head the Hoogstraten family, heap 
deeds on deeds, and if they ever think, it is only after 
the act is accomplished. If they then find that they 
have committed an injustice, pride comes in and forbids 
them to confess, atone for, or recall it. So one misfor- 


124 


the burgomaster’s wife. 


tune follows another; but the gentlemen pay no heed 
and find forgetfulness in drinking and gambling, carous- 
ing and hunting. There are plenty of debts, but all 
anxiety concerning them is left to the creditors, and boys 
who receive no inheritance are supplied with a place at 
court or in the army ; for the girls, thank God, there is 
no lack of convents, if they confess our holy religion, 
and both have expectations from rich aunts and other 
blood relations, who die without children.” 

“ You paint in vivid colors.” 

“ But they are true, and they all suit the Junker; 
though to be sure he need not keep his property for sons, 
since his wife gave him none. He met her at court in 
Brussels, and she came from Parma.” 

“ Did you know her ?” 

“ She died before I came to the padrona’s house. 
The two young ladies grew up without a mother. You 
have heard that their father would even attack them, yet 
he doubtless loved them and would never resolve to 
place them in a convent. True, he often felt — at least 
he freely admitted it in conversations with her excellenza 
— that there were more suitable places for young girls 
than his castle, where matters went badly enough, and 
so he at last sent his oldest daughter to us. My mistress 
usually could not endure the society of young girls, but 
Fraulein Anna was one of her nearest relatives, and I 
know she invited her of her own accord. I can still see 
in memory the signorina at sixteen ; a sweeter creature, 
Herr Wilhelm, my eyes have never beheld before or since, 
and yet she never remained the same. I have seen her 
as soft as Flemish velvet, but at other times she could 
rage like a November storm in your country. She was 
always beautiful as a rose and, as her mother’s old 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 1 25 

cameriera — she was a native of Lugano — had brought 
her up, and the priest who taught her came from Pisa 
and was acknowledged to be an excellent musician, she 
spoke my language like a child of Tuscany and was per- 
fectly familiar with music. You have doubtless heard 
her singing, her harp and lute-playing, but you should 
know that all the ladies of the Hoogstraten family, with 
the exception of my mistress, possess a special talent for 
your art. In summer we lived in the beautiful country- 
house, that was torn down before the seige by your 
friends — with little justice I think. Many a stately guest 
rode out to visit us. We kept open house, and where 
there is a good table and a beautiful young lady like our 
signorina, the gallants are not far off. Among them was 
a very aristocratic gentleman of middle age, the Mar- 
quis d Avennes, whom her excellenza had expressly in- 
vited. We had never received any prince with so much 
attention ; but this was a matter of course, for his mother 
was a relative of her excellenza. You must know that 
my mistress, on her mother’s side, is descended from a 
family in Normandy. The Marquis d’ Avennes was cer- 
tainly an elegant cavalier, but rather dainty than manly. 
He was soon madly in love with Fraulein Anna, and 
asked in due form for her hand. Her excellenza favored 
the match, and the father said simply: ‘You will take 
him ’ He would listen to no opposition. Other 
gentlemen don’t consult their daughters when a suitable 
lover appears. So the signorina became the marquis’s 
betrothed wife, but the padrona said firmly that her 
niece was too young to be married. She induced Jun- 
ker Van Hoogstraten, whom she held as firmly as 
a farrier holds a filly, to defer the wedding until 
Easter. The outfit was to be provided during the 


126 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


winter. The condition that he must wait six months 
was imposed on the marquis, and he went back to 
France with the ring on his finger. His betrothed bride 
did not shed a single tear for him, and as soon as he 
had gone, flung the engagement ring into the jewel-cup 
on her dressing-table, before the eyes of the camariera, 
from whom I heard the story. She did not venture to 
oppose her father, but did not hesitate to express her 
opinion of the marquis to her excellenza, and her aunt, 
though she had favored the Frenchman’s suit, allowed 
it. Yet there had often been fierce quarrels between 
the old and young lady, and if the padrona had had 
reason to clip the wild falcon’s wings and teach her 
what is fitting for noble ladies, the signorina would 
have been justified in complaining of many an exaction, 
by which the padrona had spoiled her pleasure in life. 
I am sorry to destroy the confidence of your youth, but 
whoever grows grey, with his eyes open, will meet per- 
sons who rejoice, nay to whom it is a necessity to injure 
others. Yet it is a consolation, that no one is wicked 
simply for the sake of wickedness, and I have often 
found — how shall I express it ? — that the worst im- 
pulses arise from the perversion, or even the excess 
of the noblest virtues, whose reverse or caricature they 
become. I have seen base envy proceed from beautiful 
ambition, contemptible avarice from honest emulation, 
fierce hate from tender love. My mistress, when she 
was young, knew how to love truly and faithfully, but 
she was shamefully deceived, and now rancor, not against 
an individual, but against life, has taken possession of 
her, and her noble loyalty has become tenacious ad- 
herence to bad wishes. How this has happened you 
will learn, if you will continue to listen. 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


I2 7 


“ When winter came, I was ordered to go to Brus- 
sels and establish the new household in splendid style. 
The ladies were to follow me. It was four years ago. 
The Duke of Alva then lived as viceroy in Brussels, 
and this nobleman held my mistress in high esteem, 
nay had even twice paid us the honor of a visit. His 
aristocratic officers also frequented our house, among 
them Don Luis d’Avila, a nobleman of ancient 
family, who was one of the duke’s favorites. Like 
the Marquis d’Avennes, he was no longer in his early 
youth, but was a man of totally different stamp ; 
tall, strong as if hammered from steel, a soldier of in- 
vincible strength and skill, a most dreaded seeker of 
quarrels, but a man whose glowing eyes and wonderful 
gift of song must have exerted a mysterious, bewitching 
power over women. Dozens of adventures, in which he 
was said to have taken part, were told in the servant’s 
hall and half of them had some foundation of truth, as 
I afterwards learned by experience. If you suppose this 
heart-breaker bore any resemblance to the gay, curly- 
haired minions of fortune, on whom young ladies lavish 
their love, you are mistaken; Don Luis was a grave 
man with close-cut hair, who never wore anything but 
dark clothes, and even carried a sword, whose hilt, in- 
stead of gold and silver, consisted of blackened metal. 
He resembled death much more than blooming love. 
Perhaps this very thing made him irresistible, since we 
are all bom for death and no suitor is so sure of victory 
as he. 

“ The padrona had not been favorably disposed to 
him at first, but this mood soon changed, and at New 
Year’s he too was admitted to small evening receptions 
of intimate friends. He came whenever we invited him, 


128 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


but had no word, no look, scarcely a greeting for our 
young lady. Only when it pleased the signorina to sing, 
he went near her and sharply criticised anything in her 
execution that chanced to displease him. He often sang 
himself too, and then usually chose the same songs as 
Fraulein Anna, as if to surpass her by his superior skill. 

“ So things went on till the time of the carnival. On 
Shrove-Tuesday the padrona gave a large entertainment, 
and when I led the servants and stood behind the sig- 
norina and Don Luis, to whom her excellenza had long 
been in the habit of assigning the seat beside her niece, 
I noticed that their hands met under the table and rested 
in each other’s clasp a long time. My heart was so full 
of anxiety, that it was very hard for me to keep the at- 
tention so necessary on that evening — and when the 
next morning, the padrona summoned me to settle the 
accounts, I thought it my duty to modestly remark that 
Don Luis d’ Avila’s wooing did not seem disagreeable 
to the young lady in spite of her betrothal. She let me 
speak, but when I ventured to repeat what people said 
of the Spaniard, angrily started up and showed me to the 
door. A faithful servant often hears and sees more than 
his employers suspect, and I had the confidence of the 
padrona’s foster-sister, who is now dead ; but at that 
time Susanna knew everything that concerned her mis- 
stress. 

“ There was a bad prospect for the expectant bride- 
groom in France, for whenever the padrona spoke of 
him, it was with a laugh we knew, and which boded no 
good ; but she still wrote frequently to the marquis and 
his mother, and many a letter from Rochebrun reached 
our house. To be sure, her excellenza also gave Don 
Luis more than one secret audience. 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


I29 


“ During Lent a messenger from Fraulein Van 
Hoogstraten’s father arrived with the news, that at 
Easter he, himself, would come to Brussels from Haar- 
lem, and the marquis from Castle Rochebrun, and on 
Maundy-Thursday I received orders to dress the private 
chapel with flowers, engage post-horses, and do several 
other things. On Good Friday, the day of our Lord’s 
crucifixion — I wish I were telling lies — early in the 
morning of Good Friday the signorina was dressed in 
all her bridal finery. Don Luis appeared clad in 
black, proud and gloomy as usual, and by candle-light, 
before sunrise on a cold, damp morning — it seems to 
me as if it were only yesterday — the Castilian was mar- 
ried to our young mistress. The padrona, a Spanish 
officer and I were the witnesses. At seven o’clock the 
carriage drove up, and after it was packed Don Luis 
handed me a little box to put in the vehicle. It was 
heavy and I knew it well ; the padrona was in the habit 
of keeping her gold coin in it. At Easter the whole 
city learned that Don Luis d’Avila had eloped with 
the beautiful Anna Van Hoogstraten, after killing her 
betrothed bridegroom in a duel on Maundy-Thursday at 
Hals on his way to Brussels — scarcely twenty-four 
hours before the wedding. 

“ I shall never forget how Junker Van Hoogstraten 
raged. The padrona refused to see him and pretended 
to be ill, but she was as well as only she could be during 
these last few years.” 

“ And do you know how to interpret your mistress’s • 
mysterious conduct ? ” asked Wilhelm. 

“Yes sir; her reasons are perfectly evident. But I 
must hasten, it is growing late; besides I cannot tell 
you minute particulars, for I was myself a child when the 


! 3 o 


THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE. 


event happened, though Susanna has told me many things 
that would probably be worth relating. Her excellenza’s 
mother was a Chevreaux, and my mistress spent the best 
years of her life with her mother’s sister, who during the 
winter lived in Paris. It was in the reign of the late 
King Francis, and you doubtless know that this great 
Prince was a very gallant gentleman, who was said to 
have broken as many hearts as lances. My padrona, 
who in those days was very beautiful, belonged to the 
ladies of his court, and King Francis especially distin- 
guished her. But the young lady knew how to guard 
her honor, for she had early found in the gallant Mar- 
quis d’Avennes a knight to whom she was loyally de- 
voted, and for whom she had wept bitterly many a night. 
Like master, like servant, and though the marquis had 
worn the young lady’s color for years and rendered her 
every service of an obedient knight, his eyes and heart 
often wandered to the right and left. Yet he always 
returned to his liege-lady, and when the sixth year came, 
the Chevreaux’s urged the marquis to put an end to his 
trifling and think of marriage. My mistress began to 
make her preparations, and Susanna was a witness of 
her consultation with the marquis about whether she 
would keep or sell the Holland estates and castles. But 
the wedding did not take place, for the marquis was 
obliged to go to Italy with the army and her excellenza 
lived in perpetual anxiety about him ; at that time the 
French fared ill in my country, and he often left her 
whole months without news. At last he returned and 
found in the Chevreaux’s house his betrothed wife’s little 
cousin, who had grown up into a charming young lady. 
You can imagine the rest. The rose-bud Hortense now 
pleased the marquis far better than the Holland flower 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


* 3 * 

of five and twenty. The Chevreaux’s were aristocratic 
but deeply in debt, and the suitor, while fighting in Italy, 
had inherited the whole of his uncle’s great estate, so 
they did not suffer him to sue in vain. My mistress re- 
turned to Holland. Her father challenged the marquis, 
but no blood was spilled in the duel, and Monsieur 
d’Avennes led a happy wedded life with Hortense de 
Chevreaux. Her son was the signorina’s hapless lover. 
Do you understand, Herr Wilhelm ? She had nursed 
and fostered the old grudge for half a life time ; for its 
sake she had sacrificed her own kinswoman to Don 
Luis, but in return she repaid by the death of the only 
son of a hated mother, the sorrow she had suffered for 
years on her account.” 

The musician had clenched the handkerchief, with 
which he had wiped the perspiration from his brow, 
closely in his hand, and asked : 

“ What more have you heard of Anna ? ” 

“ Very little,” replied Belotti. “ Her father has 
torn her from his heart, and calls Henrica his only 
daughter. Happiness abandons those who are bur- 
dened by a father’s curse, and she certainly did not find 
it. Don Luis is said to have been degraded to the 
rank of ensign on account of some wild escapades, and 
who knows what has become of the poor, beautiful 
signorina. The padrona sometimes sent money to her 
in Italy, by way of Florence, through Signor Lamperi — 
but I have heard nothing of her during the last few 
months.” 

“ One more question, Belotti,” said Wilhelm. “ How 
could Henrica’s father trust her to your mistress, after 
what had befallen his older daughter in her house ? ” 

“Money — miserable money! To keep his castle 


I 3 2 


THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE,. 


and not lose his inheritance, he resigned his child. Yes, 
sir, the signorina was bargained for, like a horse, and 
her father didn’t sell her cheap. Drink some wine, sir, 
you look ill.” 

“ It is nothing serious,” said Wilhelm, “but the fresh 
air will probably do me good. Thanks for your story, 
Belotti.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

On the afternoon of the sixteenth of May, Burgo- 
master Van der Werff’s wife was examining chests and 
boxes. Her husband was at the town-hall, but had 
told her that towards evening, the Prince’s commis- 
sioner, Herr Dietrich Van Bronknorst, the two Seigneurs 
von Nordwyk, the city clerk Van Hout, and several 
other heads of municipal affairs and friends of freedom 
would meet at his house for a confidential consultation. 
Maria had the charge of providing the gentlemen with 
a nice collation, wine, and many similar cares. 

This invitation had a very cheering influence on the 
young wife. It pleased her to be able to play the hostess, 
according to the meaning of the word in her parents’ 
house. How long she had been debarred from hearing 
any grave, earnest conversation. True, there had been 
no lack of visitors : the friends and relatives of her hus- 
band’s family, who called upon her and talked with 
Barbara, often begged her to come to their houses; 
among them were many who showed themselves kindly 
disposed and could not help respecting her worth, but 
not one to whom she was attracted by any warm affec- 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 133 

tion. Maria, whose life was certainly not crowded with 
amusements, dreaded their coming, and when they did 
call, endured their presence as an unavoidable evil. The 
worthy matrons were all much older than herself and, 
while sitting over their cakes, stewed fruit, and hippocras, 
knitting, spinning or netting, talked of the hard times 
during the siege, of the cares of children and servants, 
washing and soap-making, or subjected to a rigid scrutiny 
the numerous incomprehensible and reprehensible acts 
other women were said to have committed, to be com- 
mitting, or to desire to commit, until Maria’s heart grew 
heavy and her lonely room seemed to her a peaceful 
asylum. 

She could find words only when the conversation 
turned upon the misery of the country and the sacred 
duty of bearing every privation a second time, if neces- 
sary for the freedom of the nation, and then she gladly 
listened to the sturdy women, who evidently meant 
what they said ; but when the hours were filled with idle 
gossip, it caused her actual pain. Yet she dared not 
avoid it and was obliged to w r ait until the departure of 
the last acquaintance ; for after she had ventured to re- 
tire early several times, Barbara kindly warned her 
against it, not concealing that she had had great diffi- 
culty in defending her against the reproach of pride and 
incivility. 

“ Such chat,” said the widow, “ is pleasant and 
strengthens the courage, and whoever leaves the visitors 
while they are together, can pray the Lord for a favor- 
able report.” 

One lady in Leyden pleased the burgomaster’s wife. 
This was the wife of Herr Van Hout, the city clerk, 
but the latter rarely appeared in company, for though a 


*34 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


delicate, aristocratic-looking woman, she was obliged to 
be busy from morning till night, to keep the children and 
household in good order on a narrow income. 

Maria felt brighter and happier than she had done 
for many days, as she stood before the shelf that con- 
tained the table-furniture and the cupboard where the 
silver was kept. All the handsome dishes belonging to 
the house were bright and shining, free from every grain 
of dust, so too were the white linen cloths, trimmed 
with lace. She selected what she needed, but many of 
the pewter, glass, and silver articles did not please her ; 
for they did not match, and she found scratches and 
cracks on numerous pieces. 

When her mother had begun to prepare her wedding- 
outfit, Peter expressed a desire that in these hard times 
the money snould be kept and no useless things pur- 
chased. There was an abundance of household articles 
of every kind in his home, and he would have thought 
it wrong to buy even a plate. In fact there was no lack 
of anything on the shelves and cupboards, but she had 
not selected and bought them herself ; they belonged to 
her, but not entirely, and what was worse, her eyes, 
accustomed to prettier things, could find no pleasure in 
these dull, scratched pewter plates, these pitchers, cups 
and tankards painted in coarse figures with daring 
colors. The clumsy glass, too, did not suit her taste, 
and, while looking it over and selecting what was neces- 
sary, she could not help thinking of her recently- wedded 
friends, who, with sparkling eyes, had showed her their 
spick-and-span new table-furniture as proudly and hap- 
pily, as if each piece had been their own work. But, 
even with the articles she possessed, a table could be 
set very prettily and daintily. 


THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE. 


*35 


• 

She had gone out with Adrian before dinner to cut 
some flowers in the garden by the city wall, and also 
gathered some delicate grasses in the meadow before the 
gate. These gifts of May were now tastefully arranged, 
mixed with peacock-feathers, and placed in vases, and 
she was delighted to see even the clumsiest dishes win a 
graceful aspect from the garlands she twined around 
them. Adrian watched her in astonishment. He would 
not have marvelled if, under her hands, the dark dining- 
room had been transformed into a hall of mother-of- 
pearl and crystal. 

When the table was laid, Peter returned home for a 
moment. He was going to ride out to Valkenburg with 
Captain Allertssohn, Janus Dousa, and other gentlemen, 
to inspect the fortifications before his guests appeared. 
As he passed through the dining-room, he waved his 
hand to his wife and glancing over the table, said : 

“ This decoration was not necessary, least of all the 
flowers. We expect to hold a serious consultation, and 
you have arranged a wedding-banquet.” 

Perceiving that Maria cast down her eyes, he ex- 
claimed kindly : 

“ But ft can remain so for aught I care,” and left the 
room. 

Maria stood irresolutely before her work. Bitter 
emotions were again beginning to stir in her mind, and 
she was already extending her hand defiantly towards 
one particularly beautiful vase, when Adrian raised his 
large eyes to her face, exclaiming in a tone of earnest 
entreaty : 

“ No, mother, you mustn’t do that, it looks^quite too 
pretty.” 

Maria smiled, passed her hand over the boy’s 


136 THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 

♦ 

curls, took two cakes from a dish, gave them to him, 
and said : 

“ One for you, the other for Bessie ; our flowers 
shall stay.” 

Adrian hurried off with the sweet gifts, but Maria 
glanced over the table once more, saying : 

“ Peter never wants anything but what is absolutely 
necessary ; yet that surely isn’t all, or God would have 
made all the birds with grey feathers.” 

After helping Barbara in the kitchen, she went to 
her own room. There she arranged her hair, put a 
fresh, beautifully-starched ruff around her neck and 
carefully-plaited lace in the open bosom of her dress, 
but wore her every-day gown, for her husband did 
not wish to give the assembly at his house a festal 
aspect. 

Just as she had put the last gold pin in her hair, and 
was considering whether the place of honor at the table 
belonged to Herr Van Bronkhorst, as representative of 
the Prince, or to the older Herr von Nordwyk, Trautchen 
knocked at the door and informed her, that Doctor 
Bontius wished to see the burgomaster on urgent bus- 
iness. The maid-servant had told the physician that 
her master had ridden out, but he would not be put 
off, and asked permission to see her mistress. 

Maria instantly went to Peter’s room. The doctor 
seemed to be in haste. His only greeting was to point 
with the gold head of his long staff towards the peaked 
black hat, that never left his head, even beside the sick- 
bed, and asked in a curt, hurried tone : 

“ Wl^n will Meister Peter come home ?” 

“ In an hour,” replied Maria. “Sit down, Doctor.” 

“ Another time. It will keep me too long to wait for 


THE BURGOMASTER S WIFE. 


137 


your husband. After all, you can come with me even 
without his consent.” 

“ Certainly ; but we are expecting visitors.” 

“Yes. If I find time, I shall come too. The gentle- 
men can do without me, but you are necessary to the 
sick person to whom I wish to take you.” 

“ I have no idea of whom you are speaking.” 

“ Haven’t you ? Then once more, it is of some one 
who is suffering, and that will be enough for you at 
first.” 

“And you think I could — ” 

“ You can do far more than you know. Barbara is 
attending to affairs in the kitchen, and now I tell you 
again : You must help a sufferer.” 

“ But, Doctor — ” 

“ I must beg you to hurry, for my time is limited. 
Do you wish to make yourself useful ; yes or no ?” 

The door of the dining-room had remained open. 
Maria again glanced at the table, and all the pleasures 
she had anticipated this evening passed through her 
mind. But as the doctor was preparing to go, she 
stopped him, saying : 

“ I will come.” 

The manners of this blunt, but unselfish and clever 
man were familiar to Maria who, without waiting for a 
reply, brought her shawl, and led the way downstairs. 
As they passed by the kitchen, Bontius called to 
Barbara : 

“Tell Meister Peter, I have taken his wife to see 
Fraulein Van Hoogstraten in Nobelstrasse.” 

Maria could scarcely keep up with the doctor’s rapid 
strides and had some difficulty in understanding him, as in 
broken sentences he told her that all the Clipper friends 
32 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


J 3 8 

of the Hoogstraten family had left the city, the old 
Fraulein was dead, the servants had run away from fear 
of the plague, which had no existence, and Henrica was 
now deserted. She had been very ill with a severe fever, 
but was much better during the past few days. “ Mis- 
fortune has taken up its abode in the Glipper nest,” he 
added. “ The scythe-man did the old lady a favor when 
he took her. The French maid, a feeble nonentity, held 
out bravely, but after watching a few nights broke down 
entirely and was to have been carried to St. Catharine’s 
hospital, but the Italian steward, who is not a bad fel- 
low, objected and had her taken to a Catholic laundress. 
He has followed to nurse her. No one is left in the de- 
serted house to attend to the young lady, except Sister 
Gonzaga, a good little nun, one of the three who were 
allowed to remain in the old convent near you, but early 
this morning, to cap the climax of misfortune, the kind 
old woman scalded her fingers while heating a bath. 
The Catholic priest has faithfully remained at his post, 
but what can we men do in nursing the sick girl! You 
doubtless now suspect why I brought you with me. You 
ought not and cannot become the stranger’s nurse per- 
manently ; but if the young lady is not to sink after all, 
she must now have some face about her which she can 
love, and God has blessed you with one. Look at the 
sick girl, talk with her, and if you are what I believe 
you — but here we are.” 

The air of the dark entrance hall of the Hoogstraten 
residence was filled with a strong odor of musk. The 
old lady’s death had been instantly announced at the 
town-hall by Doctor Bontius’ representative, and an 
armed man was marching up and down in the hall, 
keeping guard, who told the physician that Herr Van 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 139 

Hout had already been here with his men and put seals 
on all the doors. 

On the staircase Maria siezed her guide’s arm in ter- 
ror ; for through an open door-way of the second story, 
to which she was ascending with her companion, she 
saw in the dusk a shapeless figure, moving strangely 
hither and thither, up and down. Her tone was by no 
means confident as, pointing towards it with her finger, 
she asked the doctor : 

“ What is that ? ” 

The physician had paused with her, and seeing the 
strange object to which the burgomaster’s wife pointed, 
recoiled a step himself. But the cool-headed man quickly 
perceived the real nature of the ghostly apparition, and 
leading Maria forward exclaimed smiling : 

“What in the world are you doing there on the 
floor, Father Damianus ?” 

“ I am scouring the boards,” replied th*i priest 
quietly. 

“ Right is right,” cried the doctor indignantly. “ You 
are too good for maid-servant’s work, Father Damianus, 
especially when there is plenty of money without an 
owner here in the house, and we can find as many 
scrubbing- women as we want to-morrow.” 

“ But not to-day, doctor ; and the young lady won’t 
stay in yonder room any longer. You ordered her to 
go to sleep yourself, and Sister Gonzaga says she 
won’t close her eyes so long as she is next door to the 
corpse.” 

“ Then Van Hout’s men ought to have carried her 
on her bed into the old lady’s beautiful sitting-room.” 

« That’s sealed, and so are all the other handsome 
chambers on this story. The men were obliging and 


140 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


tried to find scrub-women, but the poor things are afraid 
of the plague.” 

“ Such rumors grow like wire-grass,” cried the doc- 
tor. Nobody sows it, yet who can uproot it when it is 
once here ? ” 

“ Neither you nor I,” replied the priest. “The 
young lady must be brought into this room at once; 
but it looked neglected, so I ? ve just set it to rights. It 
will do the invalid good, and the exercise can’t hurt me.” 

With these words Father Damianus rose, and seeing 
Maria, said : 

“ You have brought a new nurse ? That’s right. I 
need not praise Sister Gonzaga, for you know her; but 
I assure you Fraulein Henrica won’t allow her to remain 
with her long, and I shall leave this house as soon as 
the funeral is over.” 

“You have done your duty; but what does this 
news about the Sister mean?” cried the physician 
angrily. “ I’d rather have your old Gonzaga with her 
burnt fingers than — What has happened ?” 

The priest approached and, hastily casting a side 
glance at the burgomaster’s wife, exclaimed : 

“ She speaks through her nose, and Fraulein Henrica 
said just now it made her ache to hear her talk ; I must 
keep her away.” 

Doctor Bontius reflected a moment, and then said : 

“ There are eyes that cannot endure a glare of light, 
and perhaps certain tones may seem unbearable to irri- 
tated ears. Frau Van der Werff, you have been kept 
waiting a long time, please follow me.” 

It had grown dark. The curtains of the sick-room 
were lowered and a small lamp, burning behind a screen, 
shed but a feeble light. 


the Burgomaster’s wife. 


141 


The doctor approached the bed, felt Henrica’s pulse, 
said a few words in a low tone to prepare her for her 
visitor, and then took the lamp to see how the invalid 
looked. 

Maria now beheld a pale face with regular outline, 
whose dark eyes, in their size and lustre, formed a strik- 
ing contrast to the emaciated cheeks and sunken feat- 
ures of the sick girl. 

After old Sister Gonzaga had restored the lamp to 
its former place, the physician said : 

“ Excellent ! Now, Sister, go and change the band- 
age on your arm and lie down.” Then he beckoned 
Maria to approach. 

Henrica’s face made a strange impression upon the 
burgomaster’s wife. She thought her beautiful, but the 
large eyes and firmly-shut lips seemed peculiar, rather 
than attractive. Yet she instantly obeyed the physician’s 
summons, approached the bed, said kindly that she had 
been glad to come to stay with her a short time, and 
asked what she desired. 

At these words, Henrica raised herself and with a 
sigh of relief, exclaimed : 

“ That does me good ! Thanks, Doctor. That’s a 
human voice again. If you want to please me, Frau 
Van der Werff. keep on talking, no matter what you say. 
Please come and sit down here. With Sister Gonzaga’s 
hands, your voice, and the doctor’s — yes, I will say with 
Doctor Bontius’ candor, it won’t be difficult to recover 
entirely.” 

“ Good, good,” murmured the physician. “ Kind 
Sister Gonzaga’s injuries are not serious and she will stay 
with you, but when it is time for you to sleep, you will 
be moved elsewhere. You can remain here an hour. 


142 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


Frau Van der Werff, but that will be enough for to-day. 
I’ll go to your house and send the servant for you 
with a lantern.” 

When the two ladies were left alone together, Maria 
said : 

“You set great value on the sound of voices; so do 
I, perhaps more than is desirable. True, I have never 
had any serious illness — ” 

“ This is my first one too,” replied Henrica, “ but I 
know now what it is to be compelled to submit to every- 
thing we don’t like, and feel with two-fold keenness 
everything that is repulsive. It is better to die than 
suffer.” 

“ Your aunt is dead,” said Maria sympathizingly. 

“ She died early this morning. We had little in com- 
mon save the tie of blood.” 

“ Are your parents no longer living ? ” 

“ Only my father; but what of that?” 

“ He will rejoice over your recovery ; Doctor Bon- 
tius says you will soon be perfectly well.” 

“ I think so too,” replied Henrica confidently, and 
then said softly, without heeding Maria’s presence: 

“ There is one beautiful thing. When I am well again, 

I shall once more — Do you practise music ?” 

“ Yes, dear Fraulein.” 

“Not merely as a pastime, but because you feel you 
cannot live without it ?’* 

“ You must keep quiet, Fraulein. Music ; — yes, I . 
think my life would be far poorer without it than it is.” 

“ Do you sing ? ” 

“Very seldom here; but when a girl in Delft we 
sung every day.” 

“ Of course you were the soprano ? ” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


143 


“Yes, Fraulein.” 

“ Let the Fraulein drop, and call me Henrica.” 

“With all my heart, if you will call me Maria, or 
Frau Maria.” 

“ I’ll try. Don’t you think we could practise many a 
song together ? ” 

Just as these words were uttered, Sister Gonzaga 
entered the room, saying that the wife of Receiver Gen- 
eral Cornelius had called to ask if she could do anything 
for the sick lady. 

“ What does that mean ? ” asked Henrica angrily. 
“ I don’t know the woman.” 

“ She is the mother of Herr Wilhelm, the musician,” 
said the young wife. 

“ Oh !” exclaimed Henrica. “ Shall I admit her, 
Maria ?” 

The latter shook her head and answered firmly : 

“ No, Fraulein Henrica. It is not good for you to 
have more than one visitor at this hour, and besides — ” 

“ Well ?” 

“ She is an excellent woman, but I fear her blunt 
manner, heavy step, and loud voice would not benefit 
you just now. Let me go to her and ask what she desires.” 

“ Receive her kindly, and tell her to remember me to 
her son. I am not very delicate, but I see you under- 
stand me; such substantial fare would hardly suit me 
just now.” 

After Maria had performed her errand and talked 
with Henrica for a time, Frau Van Hout was announced. 
Her husband, who had been present when the doors of 
the house of death were sealed, had told her about the 
invalid and she came to see if the poor girl needed any- 
thing. 


144 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


“You might receive her,” said Maria, “for she would 
surely please you; but the bell is ringing again, and you 
have talked enough for to-day. Try to sleep now. I’ll 
go home with Frau Van Hout and come again to-mor- 
row, if agreeable to you.” 

“ Come, pray come !” exclaimed the young girl. “ Do 
you want to say anything more to me ?” 

“ I should like to do so, Fraulein Henrica. You 
ought not to stay in this sad house. There is plenty of 
room in ours. Will you be our guest until your 
father — ” 

“Yes, take me home with you!” cried the invalid, 
tears sparkling in her eyes. “ Take me away from here, 
only take me away — and I will be grateful to you all 
my life.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Maria had not mounted the stairs so joyously for 
weeks as she did to-day. She would have sung, had it 
been seemly, though she felt a little anxious; for per- 
haps her husband would not think she had done right to 
invite, on her own authority, a stranger, especially a sick 
stranger, who was a friend of Spain, to be their guest. 

As she passed the dining-room, she heard the gentle- 
men consulting together. Then Peter began to speak. 
She noticed the pleasant depth of his voice, and said to 
herself that Henrica would like to hear it. A few 
minutes after she entered the apartment, to greet her 
husband’s guests, who were also hers. Joyous excite- 
ment and the rapid walk through the air of the May 


THE BURGOMASTERS WIFE. 


145 


evening, which, though the day had been warm, was still 
cool, had flushed her cheeks and, as she modestly 
crossed the threshold with a respectful greeting, which 
nevertheless plainly revealed the pleasure afforded by 
the visit of such guests, she looked so winning and 
lovely, that not a single person present remained un- 
moved by the sight. The older Herr Van der Does 
clapped Peter on the shoulder and then struck the palm 
of his hand with his fist, as if to say : “ I won’t ques- 

tion that!” Janus Dousa whispered gaily to Van 
Hout, who was a good Latin scholar : 

“ Oculi sunt in amove duces” 

Captain Allertssohn started up and raised his hand 
to his hat with a military salute; Van Bronkhorst, the 
Prince’s Commissioner, gave expression to his feelings 
in a courtly bow, Doctor Bontius smiled contentedly, 
like a person who has successfully accomplished a haz- 
ardous enterprise, and Peter proudly and happily strove 
to attract his wife’s attention to himself. But this was 
not to be, for as soon as Maria perceived that she was 
the mark for so many glances, she lowered her eyes with 
a deep blush, and then said far more firmly than would 
have been expected from her timid manner : 

“ Welcome, gentlemen! My greeting comes late, but 
I would have gladly offered it earlier.” 

“ I can bear witness to that,” cried Doctor Bontius, 
rising and shaking hands with Maria more cordially than 
ever before. Then he motioned towards Peter, and ex- 
claimed to the assembled guests : “ Will you excuse the 
burgomaster for a moment ?” 

As soon as he stood apart with the husband and 
wife at the door, he began : 

“ You have invited a new visitor to the house, Frau 


4 6 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


Van der Werff; I won’t drink another drop of Malmsey, 
if I’m mistaken.” 

“ How do you know ?” asked Maria gaily. 

“ I see it in your face.” 

“ And the young lady shall be cordially welcome to 
me,” added Peter. 

“ Then you know ? ” asked Maria. 

“The doctor did not conceal his conjecture from 
me.” 

“ Why yes, the sick girl will be glad to come to us, 
and to-morrow — ” 

“ No, I’ll send for her to-day,” interrupted Peter. 

“To-day?” But dear me! It’s so late; perhaps 
she is asleep, the gentlemen are here, and our spare 
bed — ” exclaimed Maria, glancing disapprovingly and 
irresolutely from the physician to her husband. 

“ Calm yourself, child,” replied Peter. “ The doc- 
tor has ordered a covered litter from St. Catharine’s 
hospital, Jan and one of the city-guard will carry 
her, and Barbara has nothing more to do in the 
kitchen and is now preparing her own chamber for 
her.” 

“And,” chimed in the physician, “perhaps the sick 
girl may find sleep here. Besides, it will be far more 
agreeable to her pride to be carried through the streets 
unseen, under cover of the darkness.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said Maria sadly, “ that may be so ; but 
I had been thinking — People ought not to do anything 
too hastily.” 

“ Will you be glad to receive the young lady as a 
guest ? ” asked Peter. 

“ Why, certainly.” 

Then we won’t do things by halves, but show her 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


147 


dll the kindness in our power. There is Barbara beck- 
oning; the litter has come, Doctor. Guide the noc- 
turnal procession in God’s name, but don’t keep us 
waiting too long.” 

The burgomaster returned to his seat, and Bontius 
left the room. 

Maria followed him. In the entry, he laid his hand 
on her arm and asked : 

“ Will you know next time, what I expect from 
you ? ” 

“ No,” replied the burgomaster’s wife, in a tone 
which sounded gay, though it revealed the disappoint- 
ment she felt ; “ no — but you have taught me that you 
are a man who understands how to spoil one’s best 
pleasures.” 

“ I will procure you others,” replied the doctor 
laughing and descended the stairs. He was Peter’s 
oldest friend, and had made many objections to the 
burgomaster’s marriage with a girl so many years his 
junior, in these evil times, but to-day he showed himself 
satisfied with Van der Werff’s choice. 

Maria returned to the guests, filled and offered 
glasses of wine to the gentlemen, and then went to her 
sister-in-law’s room, to help her prepare everything for 
the sick girl as well as possible. She did not do so 
unwillingly, but it seemed as if she would have gone 
to the work with far greater pleasure early the next 
morning. 

Barbara’s spacious chamber looked out upon the 
court-yard. No sound could be heard there of the 
conversation going on between the gentlemen in the 
dining-room, yet it was by no means quiet among these 
men who, though animated by the same purpose, differed 


148 THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 

widely about the ways and means of bringing it to a 
successful issue. 

There they sat, the brave sons of a little nation, the 
stately leaders of a small community, poor in numbers 
and means of defence, which had undertaken to bid 
defiance to the mightiest power and finest armies of its 
age. They knew that the storm-clouds, which had been 
threatening for weeks on the horizon, would rise faster 
and faster, mass together, and burst in a furious tempest 
over Leyden, for Herr Van der Werff had summoned 
them to his house because a letter addressed to himself 
and Commissioner Van Bronkhorst by the Prince, con- 
tained tidings, that the Governor of King Philip of 
Spain had ordered Senor del Campo Valdez to besiege 
Leyden a second time and reduce it to subjection. 
They were aware, that William of Orange could not 
raise an army to divert the hostile troops from their aim 
or relieve the city before the lapse of several months ; 
they had experienced how little aid was to be expected 
from the Queen of England and the Protestant Princes 
of Germany, while the horrible fate of Haarlem, a neigh- 
boring and more powerful city, rose as a menacing 
example before their eyes. But they were conscious of 
serving a good cause, relied upon the faith, courage and 
statesmanship of Orange, were ready to die rather than 
allow themselves to be enslaved body and soul by the 
Spanish tyrant. Their belief in God’s justice was deep 
and earnest, and each individual possessed a joyous 
confidence in his own resolute, manly strength. 

In truth, the men who sat around the table, so 
daintily decked with flowers by a woman’s hand, under- 
stood how to empty the large fluted goblets so nim- 
bly, that jug after jug of Peter’s Malmsey and Rhine 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


149 


wine were brought up from the cellar, the men who 
made breaches in the round pies and huge joints of 
meat, juicier and more nourishing than any country ex- 
cept theirs can furnish — did not look as if pallid fear 
had brought them together. 

The hat is the sign of liberty, and the free man keeps 
his hat on. So some of the burgomaster’s guests sat at 
the board with covered heads, and how admirably the 
high plaited cap of dark-red velvet, with its rich orna- 
ments of plumes, suited the fresh old face of the senior 
Seigneur of Nordwyk and the clever countenance of his 
nephew Janus Dousa; how well the broad-brimmed hat 
with blue and orange ostrich -feathers — the colors of the 
House of Orange — became the waving locks of the young 
Seigneur of Warmond, Jan Van Duivenvoorde. How 
strongly marked and healthful were the faces of the other 
men assembled here! Few countenances lacked ruddy 
color, and strong vitality, clear intellect, immovable will 
and firm resolution flashed from many blue eyes 
around the table. Even the black-robed magistrates, 
whose plaited ruffs and high white collars were very be- 
coming, did not look as if the dust of documents had 
injured their health. The moustaches and beards on the 
lips of each, gave them also a manly appearance. They 
were all joyously ready to sacrifice themselves and their 
property for a great spiritual prize, yet looked as if they 
had a firm foothold in the midst of life; their hale, sen- 
sible faces showed no traces of enthusiasm ; only the 
young Seigneur of Warmond’s eyes sparkled with a 
touch of this feeling; while Janus Dousa’s glance often 
seemed turned within, to seek things hidden in his own 
heart; and at such moments his sharply -cut, irregular 
features possessed a strange charm- 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


! 5 <> 

The broad, stout figure of Commissioner Van 
Bronkhorst occupied a great deal of room. His body 
was by no means agile, but from the round, closely- 
shaven head looked forth a pair of prominent eyes, that 
expressed unyielding resolution. 

The brightly-lighted table, around which such guests 
had gathered, presented a gay, magnificent spectacle. 
The yellow leather of the doublets worn by Junker von 
Warmond, Colonel Mulder, and Captain Allertssohn, the 
colored silk scarfs that adorned them, and the scarlet 
coat of brave Dirk Smaling contrasted admirably with 
the deep black robes of Pastor Verstroot, the burgo- 
master, the city clerk, and their associates ! The violet 
of the commissioner’s dress and the dark hues of the 
fur-bordered surcoats worn by the elder Herr Van der 
Does and Herr Van Montfort blended pleasantly and 
harmonized the light and dark shades. Everything 
sorrowful seemed to have been banished far from this 
brilliant, vigorous round table, so words flowed freely 
and voices sounded full and strong enough. 

Danger was close at hand. The Spanish vanguard 
might appear before Leyden any day. Many prepara- 
tions were made. English auxiliaries were to garrison 
the fortifications of Alfen and defend the Gouda lock. 
The defensive works of Valkenburg had been strength- 
ened and entrusted to other British troops, the city 
soldiers, the militia and volunteers were admirably 
drilled. They did not wish to admit foreign troops 
within the walls, for during the first siege they had 
proved far more troublesome than useful, and there was 
little reason to fear that a city guarded by water, walls 
and trees would be taken by storm. 

What most excited the gentlemen was the news Van 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


I 5 I 

Hout had brought. Rich Herr Baersdorp, one of the 
four burgomasters, who had the largest grain business 
in Leyden, had undertaken to purchase considerable 
quantities of bread-stuffs in the name of the city. 
Several ship loads of wheat and rye had been delivered 
by him the day before, but he was still in arrears with 
three-quarters of what was ordered. He openly said 
that he had as yet given no positive orders for it, 
because owing to the prospect of a good harvest, a fall 
in the price of grain was expected in the exchanges of 
Rotterdam and Amsterdam, and he would still have 
several weeks time before the commencement of the 
new blockade. 

Van Hout was full of indignation, especially as two 
out of the four burgomasters sided with their colleague 
Baersdorp. 

The elder Herr von Nordwyk agreed with him, ex- 
claiming : 

“ With all due respect to your dignity, Herr Peter, 
your three companions in office belong to the ranks of 
bad friends, who would willingly be exchanged for open 
enemies.” 

“ Herr von Noyelles,” said Colonel Mulder, “ has 
written about them to the Prince, the good and truthful 
words, that they ought to be sent to the gallows.” 

“ And they will suit them,” cried Captain Allertssohn, 
“ so long as hangmen’s nooses and traitors’ necks are 
made for each other.” 

“Traitors — no,” said Van der Werff resolutely. 
“ Call them cowards, call them selfish and base-minded 
— but not one of them is a Judas.” 

“ Right, Meister Peter, that they certainly are not, and 
perhaps even cowardice has nothing to do with their con- 


* 5 2 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


duct,” added Herr von Nordwyk. “ Whoever has eyes 
to see and ears to hear, knows the views of the gentle- 
men belonging to the old city families, who are reared 
from infancy as future magistrates; and I speak not 
only of Leyden, but the residents of Gouda and Delft, 
Rotterdam and Dortrecht. Among a hundred, sixty 
would bear the Spanish yoke, even do violence to con- 
science, if only their liberties and rights were guaranteed. 
The cities must rule and they themselves in them ; that 
is all they desire. Whether people preach sermons or 
read mass in the church, whether a Spaniard or a Hol- 
lander rules, is a matter of secondary importance to 
them. I except the present company, for you would not 
be here, gentlemen, if your views were similar to those 
of the men of whom I speak.” 

“ Thanks for those words,” said Dirk Smaling, “ but 
with all due honor to your opinion, you have painted 
matters in too dark colors. May I ask if the nobles do 
not also cling to their rights and liberties ?” 

“ Certainly, Herr Dirk ; but they are commonly of 
longer date than yours,” replied Van Bronkhorst. “ The 
nobleman needs a ruler. He is a lustreless star, if the 
sun that lends him light is lacking. I, and with me all 
the nobles who have sworn fealty to him, now believe 
that our sun must and can be no other person than the 
Prince of Orange, who is one of ourselves, knows, loves, 
and understands us ; not Philip, who has no comprehen- 
sion of what is passing within and around us, is a for- 
eigner and detests us. We will uphold William with our 
fortunes and our lives for, as I have already said, we 
need a sun, that is, a monarch — but the cities think they 
have power to shine and wish to be admired as bright 
stars themselves. True, they feel that, in these troublous 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 1 53 

times, the country needs a leader, and that they can find 
no better, wiser and more faithful one than Orange; but 
if it comes to pass — and may God grant it — that the 
Spanish yoke is broken, the noble William’s rule will seem 
wearisome, because they enjoy playing sovereign them- 
selves. In short : the cities endure a ruler, the nobles 
gather round him and need him. No real good will be 
accomplished until noble, burgher and peasant cheerfully 
yield to him, and unite to battle under his leadership for 
the highest blessings of life.” 

“ Right,” said Van Hout. “ The w ell-disposed 
nobility may well serve as an example to the governing 
classes here and in the other cities, but the people, the 
poor hard-working people, know what is coming and, 
thank God, have not yet lost a hearty love for what 
you call the highest blessings of life. They wish to be 
and remain Hollanders, curse the Spanish butchers with 
eloquent hatred, desire to serve God according to the 
yearning of their own souls, and believe what their own 
hearts dictate — and these men call the Prince their 
Father William. Wait a little ! As soon as trouble op- 
presses us, the poor and lowly will stand firm, if the rich 
and great waver and deny the good cause.” 

“•They are to be trusted,” said Van der Werff, 
“ firmly trusted.” 

“ And because I know them,” cried Van Hout, “ we 
shall conquer, with God’s assistance, come what may.” 

Janus Dousa had been looking into his glass. Now 
he raised his head and with a hasty gesture, said : 

“ Strange that those who toil for existence with their 
hands, and whose uncultured brains only move when 
their daily needs require it, are most ready to sacrifice 
the little they possess, for spiritual blessings.” 

33 


154 the burgomaster's wife. 

“Yes,” said the pastor, “ the kingdom of heaven 
stands open to the simple-hearted. It is strange that 
the poor and unlearned value religion, liberty and their 
native land far more than the perishable gifts of this 
world, the golden calf around which the generations 
throng.” 

“ My companions are not flattered to-day,” replied 
Dirk Smaling; “but I beg you to remember in our 
favor, that we are playing a great and dangerous game, 
and property-holders must supply the lion’s share of the 
stake.” 

“ By no means,” retorted Van Hout, “ the highest 
stake for which the die will be cast is life, and this has 
the same value to rich and poor. Those who will hold 
back — I think I know them — have no plain motto or 
sign, but a proud escutcheon over their doors. Let us 
wait.” 

“Yes, let us wait,” said Van der Werff; “but there 
are more important matters to be considered now. Day 
after to-morrow will be Ascension Day, when the bells 
will ring for the great fair. More than' one foreign 
trader and traveller has passed through the gates yester- 
day and the day before. Shall we order the booths to 
be set up, or have the fair deferred until some other 
time ? If the enemy hastens his march, there will be 
great confusion, and we shall perhaps throw a rich prize 
into his hands. Pray give me your opinion, gentle- 
men.” 

“ The traders ought to be protected from loss and 
the fair postponed,” said Dirk Smaling. 

“ No,” replied Van Hout, “for if this prohibition is 
issued, we shall deprive the small merchants of consid- 
erable profit and prematurely damp their courage.” 


THE BURGOMASTER^ WIFE. 1 55 

“ Let them have their festival,” cried Janus Dousa. 
“ We mustn’t do coming trouble the favor of spoiling 
the happy present on its account. If you want to act 
wisely, follow the advice of Horace.” 

“ The Bible also teaches that 4 sufficient unto the 
day is the evil thereof,’ ” added the pastor, and Captain 
Allertssohn exclaimed : 

“ On my life, yes ! My soldiers, the city-guard and 
volunteers must have their parade. Marching in full 
uniform, with all their weapons, while beautiful eyes 
smile upon them, the old wave greetings, and children 
run before with exultant shouts, a man learns to feel 
himself a soldier for the first time.” 

So it was determined to let the fair be held. While 
other questions were being eagerly discussed, Henrica 
found a loving welcome in Barbara’s pleasant room. 
When she had fallen asleep, Maria went back to her 
guests, but did not again approach the table; for the 
gentlemen’s cheeks were flushed and they were no 
longer speaking in regular order, but each was talking 
about whatever he choose. The burgomaster was dis- 
cussing with Van Hout and Van Bronkhorst the means 
of procuring a supply of grain for the city, Janus 
Dousa and Herr von Warmond were speaking of the 
poem the city clerk had repeated at the last meeting of 
the poets’ club, Herr Van der Does senior and the 
pastor were arguing about the new rules of the church, 
and stout Captain Allertssohn, before whom stood a 
huge drinking-horn drained to the dregs, had leaned his 
forehead on Colonel Mulder’s shoulder and, as usual 
when he felt particularly happy over his wine, was 
shedding tears. 


THE BURGOMASTER^ WIFE. 


1 5 6 


CHAPTER XV. 

The next day after the meeting of the council, 
Burgomaster Van der Werff, Herr Van Hout, and a 
notary, attended by two constables, went to Nobelstrasse 
to set old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten’s property in order. 
The fathers of the city had determined to seize the 
dippers’ abandoned dwellings and apply the property 
found in them to the benefit of the common cause. 

The old lady’s hostility to the patriots was known to 
all, and as her nearest relatives, Herr Van Hoogstraten 
and Matanesse Van Wibisma, had been banished from 
Leyden, the duty of representing the heirs fell upon the 
city. It was to be expected that only notorious 
dippers would be remembered in the dead woman’s 
will, and if this was the case, the revenue from the 
personal and real estate would fall to the city, until the 
deserters mended their ways, and adopted a course of 
conduct that would permit the magistrates to again 
open their gates to them. Whoever continued to cling 
to the Spaniards and oppose the cause of liberty, would 
forfeit his share of the inheritance. This was no new 
procedure. King Philip had taught its practice, nay not 
only the estates of countless innocent persons who had 
been executed, banished or gone into voluntary exile 
for the sake of the new religion, but also the property 
of good Catholic patriots had been confiscated for his 
benefit. After being anvil so many years, it is pleasant 
to play hammer; and if that was not always done in a 
proper and moderate way, people excused themselves 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 1 57 

on the ground of having experienced a hundred-fold 
harsher and more cruel treatment from the Spaniards. 
It might have been unchristian to repay in the same 
coin, but they dealt severe blows only in mortal conflict, 
and did not seek the Glippers’ lives. 

At the door of the house of death, the magistrates 
met the musician Wilhelm Corneliussohn and his mother, 
who had come to offer Henrica a hospitable reception in 
their house. The mother, who had at first refused to ex- 
tend her love for her neighbor to the young Glipper girl, 
now found it hard to be deprived of the opportunity to 
do a good work, and gave expression to these feelings in 
the sturdy fashion peculiar to her. 

Belotti was standing in the entry, no longer attired 
in the silk hose and satin-bordered cloth garments of the 
steward, but in a plain burgher dress. He told the musi- 
cian and Peter, that he remained in Leyden principally 
because he could not bear to leave the sick maid, De- 
nise, in the lurch ; but other matters also detained him, 
especially, though he was reluctant to acknowledge it, 
the feeling, strengthened by long years of service, that 
he belonged to the Hoogstraten house. The dead 
woman’s attorney had said that his account books were 
in good order, and willingly paid the balance due him. 
His savings had been well invested, and as he never 
touched the interest, but added to the capital, had 
considerably increased. Nothing detained him in Ley- 
den, yet he could not leave it until everything was 
settled in the house where he had so long ruled. 

He had daily inquired for the sick lady, and after 
her death, though Denise began to recover, still lingered 
in Leyden ; he thought it his duty to show the last 
honors to the dead by attending her funeral. 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


1 5 8 


The magistrates were glad to find Belotti in the 
house. The notary had managed his little property, 
and respected him as an honest man. He now asked 
him to act as guide to his companions and himself. 
The most important matter was to find the dead 
woman’s will. Such a document must be in existence, 
for up to the day after Henrica’s illness it had been in 
the lawyer’s possession, but was then sent for by the old 
lady, who desired to make some changes in it. He 
could give no information about its contents, for his 
dead partner, whose business had fallen to him, had 
assisted in drawing it up. 

The steward first conducted the visitors to the 
padrona’s sitting-room and boudoir, but though they 
searched the writing-tables, chests and drawers, and dis- 
covered many letters, money and valuable jewels in 
boxes and caskets, the document was not found. 

The gentlemen thought it was concealed in a secret 
drawer, and ordered one of the constables to call a lock- 
smith. Belotti allowed this to be done, but meantime 
listened with special attention to the low chanting that 
issued from the bedroom where the old lady’s body lay. 
He knew that the will would most probably be found 
there, but was anxious to have the priest complete the 
consecration of his mistress undisturbed. As soon as all 
was still in the death-chamber, he asked the gentlemen 
to follow him. 

The lofty apartment into which he led them, was 
filled with the odor of incense. A large bedstead, over 
which a pointed canopy of heavy silk rose to the ceiling, 
stood at the back, the coffin in which the dead woman 
lay had been placed in the middle of the room. A linen 
cloth, trimmed with lace, covered the face. The delicate 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 1 59 

hands, still unwrinkled, were folded, and lightly clasped 
a well-worn rosary. The lifeless form was concealed be- 
neath a costly coverlid, in the centre of which lay an 
exquisitely-carved ivory crucifix. 

The visitors bowed mutely before the corpse. Belotti 
approached it and, as he saw the padrona’s well-known 
hands, a convulsive sob shook the old man’s breast. 
Then he knelt beside the coffin, pressed his lips, to the 
cold, slender fingers, and a warm tear, the only one shed 
for this dead form, fell on the hands now clasped for- 
ever. 

The burgomaster and his companion did not inter- 
rupt him, even when he laid his forehead upon the wood 
of the coffin and uttered a brief, silent prayer. After he 
had risen, and an elderly priest in the sacerdotal robes 
had left the room, Father Damianus beckoned to the 
acolytes, with whom he had lingered in the back- 
ground, and aided by them and Belotti put the lid on 
the coffin, then turned to Peter Van der Werff, saying : 

“We intend to bury Fraulein Van Hoogstraten at 
midnight, that no offence may be given.” 

“Very well, sir!” replied the burgomaster. “What- 
ever may happen, we shall not expel you from the city. 
Of course, if you prefer to go to the Spaniards — ” 

Damianus shook his head and, interrupting the burgo- 
master, answered modestly : 

“ No, sir; I am a native of Utrecht and will gladly 
pray for the liberty of Holland.” 

“ There, there !” exclaimed Van Hout. “ Those were 
good words, admirable words ! Your hand, Father.” 

“There it is; and, so long as you don’t change the 
1 haec libertatis ergo ’ on your coins to ‘ haec religionis 
ergo / not one of those words need be altered.” 


i6o 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


“ A free country and in it religious liberty for each 
individual, even for you and your followers,” said the 
burgomaster, “ is what we desire. Doctor Bontius has 
spoken of you, worthy man; you have cared well for 
this dead woman. Bury her according to the customs 
of your church ; we have come to arrange the earthly 
possessions she leaves behind. Perhaps this casket may 
contain the will.” 

“ No, sir,” replied the priest. “ She opened the 
sealed paper in my presence, when she was first taken 
sick, and wrote a few words whenever she felt stronger. 
An hour before her end, she ordered the notary to be 
sent for, but when he came life had departed. I could 
not remain constantly beside the corpse, so I locked up 
the paper in the linen chest. There is the key.” 

The opened will was soon found. The burgomaster 
quietly unfolded it, and, while reading its contents aloud, 
the notary and city clerk looked over his shoulder. 

The property was to be divided among various 
churches and convents, where masses were to be read 
for her soul, and her nearest blood relations. Belotti 
and Denise received small legacies. 

“ It is fortunate,” exclaimed Van Hout, “ that this 
paper is a piece of paper and nothing more.” 

“ The document has no legal value whatever,” added 
the notary, “ for it was taken from me and opened with 
the explicit statement, that changes were to be made. 
Here is a great deal to be read on the back.” 

The task, that the gentlemen now undertook, was no 
easy one, for the sick woman had scrawled short notes 
above and below, hither and thither, on the blank back 
of the document, probably to assist her memory while 
composing a new will. 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. l6l 

At the very top a crucifix was sketched with an un- 
steady hand, and below it the words : “ Pray for us ! 

Everything shall belong to holy Mother Church.” 

Farther down they read : “ Nico, I like the lad. 

The castle on the downs. Ten thousand gold florins in 
money. To be secured exclusively to him. His father 
is not to touch it. Make the reason for disinheriting 
him conspicuous. Van Vliet of Haarlem was the 
gentleman whose daughter my cousin secretly wedded. 
On some pitiful pretext he deserted her, to form another 
marriage. If he has forgotten it, I have remembered 
and would fain impress it upon him. Let Nico pay 
heed : False love is poison. My life has been ruined 

by it — ruined.” 

The second “ ruined ” was followed by numerous 
repetitions of the same word. The last one, at the very 
end of the sentence, had been ornamented with numer- 
ous curves and spirals by the sick woman’s pen. 

On the right-hand margin of the sheet stood a series 
of short notes : 

“ Ten thousand florins to Anna. To be secured to 
herself. Otherwise they will fall into the clutches of 
that foot-pad, d’Avila. 

“ Three times as much to Henrica. Her father will 
pay her the money — from the sum he owes me. Where 
he gets it is his affair. Thus the account with him 
would be settled. 

“ Belotti has behaved badly. He shall be passed 
over. 

“ Denise may keep what was given her.” 

In the middle of the paper, written in large char- 
acters, twice and thrice underlined, was the sentence: 

“ The ebony casket with the Hoogstraten and 


62 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


d’ Avila arms on the lid is to be sent to the widow 
of the Marquis d’Avennes. Forward it to Chateau 
Rochebrun in Normandy.” 

The men, who had mutually deciphered these words, 
looked at each other silently, until Van Hout ex- 
claimed : 

“ What a confused mixture of malice and feminine 
weakness. Let a woman’s heart seem ever so cold; 
glacier flowers will always be found in it.” 

“ I’m sorry for the young lady in your house, 
Herr Peter,” cried the notary, “ it would be easier to get 
sparks from rye-bread, than such a sum from the debt- 
laden poor « devil. The daughter’s portion will be 
curtailed by the father; that’s what I call bargaining 
between relations.” 

“ What can be in the casket ? ” asked the notary. 

“There it is,” cried Van Hout. 

“ Bring it here, Belotti.” 

“ We must open it,” said the lawyer, “perhaps she 
is trying to convey her most valuable property across 
the frontiers.” 

“ Open it ? Contrary to the dead woman’s express 
desire?” asked Van der Werff. 

“ Certainly !” cried the notary. “ We were sent here 
to ascertain the amount of the inheritance. The lid is 
fastened. Take the picklock, Meister. There, it is open.” 

The city magistrates found no valuables in the 
casket, merely letters of different dates. There were not 
many. Those at the bottom, yellow with age, contained 
vows of love from the Marquis d’Avennes, the more 
recent ones were brief and signed Don Louis d’ Avila. 
Van Hout, who understood the Castilian language in 
which they were written, hastily read them. As he was 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 163 

approaching the end of the last one, he exclaimed with 
lively indignation : 

“ We have here the key of a rascally trick in our 
hands ! Do you remember the excitement aroused four 
years ago by the duel, in which the Marquis d’Avennes 
fell a victim to a Spanish brawler? The miserable bravo 
writes in this letter that he has .... It will be worth the 
trouble I’ll translate it for you. The first part of the 
note is of no importance ; but now comes the point : 

‘ And now, after having succeeded in crossing swords 
with the marquis and killing him, not without personal 
danger, a fate he has doubtless deserved, since he aroused 
your displeasure to such a degree, the condition you 
imposed upon me is fulfilled, and to-morrow I hope 
through your favor to receive the sweetest reward. 
Tell Donna Anna, my adored betrothed, that I would 
fain lead her to the altar early to-morrow morning, for 
the d’Avennes are influential and the following day my 
safety will perhaps be imperilled. As for the rest, I 
hoped may be permitted to rely upon the fairness and 
generosity of my patroness.” 

Van Hout flung the letter on the table, exclaiming : 
“ See, what a dainty hand the bravo writes. And, Jove’s 
thunder, the lady to whom this plotted murder was to 
have been sent, is doubtless the mother of the unfortu- 
nate marquis, whom the Spanish assassin slew.” 

“Yes, Herr Van Hout,” said Belotti, “I can con- 
firm your supposition. The marquise was the wife of 
the man, who broke his plighted faith to the young 
Fraulein Van Hoogstraten. She, who lies there, saw 
many suns rise and set, ere her vengeance ripened.” 

“Throw the scrawl into the fire!” cried Van Hout 
impetuously. 


/ 


1 6 4 


THE BURGOMASTER S WIFE. 


“ No,” replied Peter. “ We will not send the letters, 
but you must keep them in the archives. God’s mills 
grind slowly, and who knows what good purpose these 
sheets may yet serve.” 

The city clerk nodded assent and folding the papers, 
said : “ I think the dead woman’s property will be an 

advantage to the city.” 

“ The Prince will dispose of it,” replied Van der 
Werff. “ How long have you served this lady, 
Belotti ? ” 

“ Fifteen years.” 

“ Then remain in Leyden for a time. I think you 
may expect the legacy she originally left you. I will 
urge your claim.” 

A few hours before the nocturnal burial of old 
Fraulein Van Hoogstraten, Herr Matanesse Van Wi- 
bisma and his son Nicolas appeared before the city, but 
were refused admittance by the men who guarded the 
gates, although both appealed to their relative’s death. 
Henrica’s father did not come, he had gone several days 
before to attend a tourney at Cologne. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Between twelve and one o’clock on the 26th of 
May, Ascension-Day, the ringing of bells announced 
the opening of the great fair. The old circuit of the 
boundaries of the fields had long since given place to a 
church festival, but the name of “ Ommegang” remained 
interwoven with that of the fair, and even after the new 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 165 

religion had obtained the mastery, all sorts of process- 
ions took place at the commencement of the fair. 

In the days of Catholic rule the cross had been 
borne through the streets in a solemn procession, in 
which all Leyden took part, now the banners of the 
city and standards bearing the colors of the House of 
Orange headed the train, followed by the nobles on 
horseback, the city magistrates in festal array, the clergy 
in black robes, the volunteers in magnificent uniforms, 
the guilds with their emblems, and long joyous ranks of 
school-children. Even the poorest people bought some- 
thing new for their little ones on this day. Never 
did mothers braid their young daughters’ hair more 
carefully, than for the procession at the opening of the 
fair. Spite of the hard times, many a stiver was taken 
from slender purses for fresh ribbons and new shoes, 
becoming caps and bright-hued stockings. The spring 
sunshine could be reflected from the little girls’ shining, 
smoothly-combed hair, and the big boys and little 
children looked even gayer than the flowers in Herr 
Van Montfort’s garden, by which the procession was 
obliged to pass. Each wore a sprig of green leaves in 
his cap beside the plume, and the smaller the boy, the 
larger the branch. There was no lack of loud 
talk and merry shouts, for every child that passed its 
home called to its mother, grandparents, and the 
servants, and when one raised its voice many others in- 
stantly followed. The grown people too were not 
silent, and as the procession approached the town-hall, 
head-quarters of military companies, guild-halls or 
residences of popular men, loud cheers arose, mingled 
with the ringing of bells, the shouts of the sailors on 
both arms of the Rhine and on the canals, the playing 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


1 66 

of the city musicians at the street corners, and the rattle 
of guns and roar of cannon fired by the gunners and 
their assistants from the citadel. It was a joyous tumult 
in jocund spring! These merry mortals seemed to lull 
themselves carelessly in the secure enjoyment of peace 
and prosperity, and how blue the sky was, how warmly 
and brightly the sun shone ! The only grave, anxious 
faces were among the magistrates ; but the guilds and 
the children behind did not see them, so the rejoicings 
continued without interruption until the churches re- 
ceived the procession, and words so earnest and full of 
warning echoed from the pulpits, that many grew 
thoughtful. 

All three phases of time belong to man, the past 
to the graybeard, the future to youth, and the present 
to childhood. What cared the little boys and girls of 
Leyden, released from school during the fair, for the 
peril close at hand ? Whoever, on the first day and 
during the great linen-fair on Friday and the following 
days, received spending money from parents or god- 
parents, or whoever had eyes to see, ears to hear, and a 
nose to smell, passed through the rows of booths with 
his or her companions, stopped before the camels and 
dancing-bears, gazed into the open taverns, where not 
only lads and lasses, but merry old people whirled in 
the dance to the music of bagpipes, clarionets and 
violins — examined gingerbread and other dainties with 
the attention of an expert, or obeyed the blasts of 
the trumpet, by which the quack doctor’s negro sum- 
moned the crowd. 

Adrian, the burgomaster’s son, also strolled day 
after day, alone or with his companions, through the 
splendors of the fair, often grasping with the secure 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 167 

sense of wealth the leather purse that hung at his belt, 
for it contained several stivers, which had flowed in 
from various sources; his father, his mother, Barbara 
and his godmother. Captain Van Duivenvoorde, his 
particular friend, on whose noble horse he had often 
ridden, had taken him three times into a wafer booth, 
where he eat till he was satisfied, and thus, even, on the 
Tuesday after Ascension-Day, his little fortune was but 
slightly diminished. He intended to buy something 
very big and sensible : a knight’s sword or a cross-bow ; 
perhaps even — but this thought seemed like an evil 
temptation — the ginger-cake covered with almonds, 
which was exhibited in the booth of a Delft con- 
fectioner. He and Bessie could surely nibble for weeks 
upon this giant cake, if they were economical, and 
economy is an admirable virtue. Something must at 
any rate be spared for ‘Tittle brothers,”* the nice spiced 
cakes which were baked in many booths before the 
eyes of the passers-by. 

On Tuesday afternoon his way led him past the 
famous Rotterdam cake-shop. Before the door of the 
building, made of boards lightly joined together and 
decked with mirrors and gay pictures, a stout, pretty 
woman, in the bloom of youth, sat in a high arm-chair, 
pouring rapidly, with remarkable skill, liquid dough into 
the hot iron plate, provided with numerous indentations, 
that stood just on a level with her comfortably outspread 
lap. Her assistant hastily turned with a fork the little 
cakes, browning rapidly in the hollows of the iron, and 
when baked, laid them neatly on small plates. The 
waiter prepared them for purchasers by putting a large 
piece of yellow butter on the smoking pile. A tempt- 
* A kind of griddle or pancake. 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


1 68 

ing odor, that only too vividly recalled former enjoy- 
ment, rose from the fireplace, and Adrian’s fingers were 
already examining the contents of his purse, when the 
negro’s trumpet sounded and the quack doctor’s cart 
stopped directly in front of the booth. 

The famous Doctor Morpurgo was a fine-looking 
man, dressed in bright scarlet, who had a thin, coal- 
black beard hanging over his breast. His movements 
were measured and haughty, the bows and gestures 
with which he saluted the assembled crowd, patron- 
izing and affable. After a sufficient number of curious 
persons had gathered around his cart, which was 
stocked with boxes and vials, he began to address 
them in broken Dutch, spiced with numerous foreign 
words. 

He praised the goodness of the Providence which 
had created the marvel of human organism. Every- 
thing, he said, was arranged and formed wisely and in 
the best possible manner, but in one respect nature 
fared badly in the presence of adepts. 

“ Do you know where the error is, ladies and gentle- 
men ? ” he asked. 

“ In the purse,” cried a merry barber’s clerk, “ it 
grows prematurely thin every day.” 

“ Right, my son,” answered the quack graciously. 
“ But nature also provides it with the great door from 
which your answer has come. Your teeth are a bung- 
ling piece of workmanship. They appear with pain, 
decay with time, and so long as they last torture those 
who do not industriously attend to them. But art will 
correct nature. See this box — ” and he now began to 
praise the tooth-powder and cure for toothache he had 
invented. Next he passed to the head, and described 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


169 


in vivid colors, its various pains. But they too were to 
be cured, people need only buy his arcanum. It was 
to be had for a trifle, and whoever bought it could sweep 
away every headache, even the worst, as with a broom. 

Adrian listened to the famous doctor with mouth 
wide open. Specially sweet odors floated over to him 
from the hot surface of the stove before the booth, and 
he would have gladly allowed himself a plate of fresh 
cakes. The baker’s stout wife even beckoned to him 
with a spoon, but he closed his hand around the purse 
and again turned his eyes towards the quack, whose 
cart was now surrounded by men and women buying 
tinctures and medicines. 

Henrica lay ill in his father’s house. He had been 
taken into her room twice, and the beautiful pale face, 
with its large dark eyes, had filled his heart with pity. 
The clear, deep voice in which she addressed a few 
words to him, also seemed wonderful and penetrated the 
inmost depths of his soul. He was told one morning 
that she was there, and since that time his mother rarely 
appeared and the house was far more quiet than usual ; 
for everybody walked lightly, spoke in subdued tones, 
rapped cautiously at a window instead of using the 
knocker, and whenever Bessie or he laughed aloud or 
ran up or down-stairs, Barbara, his mother, or Trautchen 
appeared and whispered : “ •Gently, children, the young 
lady has a headache.” 

There were many bottles in the cart which were 
warranted to cure the ailment, and the famous Mor- 
purgo seemed to be a very sensible man, no buffoon 
like the other mountebanks. The wife of the baker, 
Wilhelm Peterssohn, who stood beside him, a woman 
he knew well, said to her companion that the doctor’s 
34 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


170 

remedies were good, they had quickly cured her god- 
mother of a bad attack of erysipelas. 

The words matured the boy’s resolution. Fleeting 
visions of the sword, the cross-bow, the gingerbread 
and the nice little brothers once more rose before his 
mind, but with a powerful effort of the will he thrust 
them aside, held his breath that he might not smell 
the alluring odor of the cakes, and hastily approached 
the cart. Here he unfastened his purse from his belt, 
poured its contents into his hand, showed the coins to 
the doctor, who had fixed his black eyes kindly on the 
odd customer, and asked : “ Will this be enough ?” 

“ For what ?” 

“ For the medicine to cure headache.” 

The quack separated the little coins in Adrian’s 
hand with his forefinger, and answered gravely: “ No, 
my son, but I am always glad to advance the cause of 
knowledge. There is still a great deal for you to learn 
at school, and the headache will prevent it. Here are 
the drops and, as it’s you, I’ll give this prescription for 
another arcanum into the bargain.” 

Adrian hastily wrapped the little vial the quack 
handed him in the piece of printed paper, received his 
dearly -bought treasure, and ran home. On the way he 
was stopped by Captain Allertssohn, who came towards 
him with the musician Wilhelm. 

“ Have you seen my Andreas, Master Good-for- 
nothing ? ” he asked. 

“ He was standing listening to the musicians,” re- 
plied Adrian, released himself from the captain’s grasp, 
and vanished among the crowd. 

“ A nimble lad,” said the fencing-master. “ My boy 
is standing with the musicians again. He has nothing 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


171 

but your art in his mind. He would rather blow 
on a comb than comb his hair with it, he’s always 
tooting on every leaf and pipe, makes triangles of 
broken sword-blades, and not even a kitchen pot is safe 
from his drumming; in short there’s nothing but sing- 
song in the good-for-nothing fellow’s head ; he wants 
to be a musician or something of the sort.” 

“ Right, right ! ” replied Wilhelm eagerly ; “ he has 
a fine ear and the best voice in the choir.” 

“ The matter must be duly considered,” replied the 
captain, “ and you, if anybody, are the person to tell us 
what he can accomplish in your art. If you have time 
this evening, Herr Wilhelm, come to me at the watch- 
house, I should like to speak to you. To be sure, you’ll 
hardly find me before ten o’clock. I have a stricture 
in my throat again, and on such days — Roland, my 
fore man!” 

The captain cleared his throat loudly and vehem- 
ently. “ I am at your service,” said Wilhelm, “ for the 
night is long, but I won’t let you go now until I know 
what you mean by your fore man Roland.” 

“ Very well, it’s not much of a story, and perhaps you 
won’t understand. Come in here ; I can tell it better 
over a mug of beer, and the legs rebel if they’re de- 
prived of rest four nights in succession.” 

When the two men were seated opposite to each 
other in the tap-room, the fencing-master pushed his 
moustache away from his lips, and began : “ How 

long ago is it — ? We’ll say fifteen years, since I was 
riding to Haarlem with the innkeeper Aquanus, who 
as you know, is a learned man and has all sorts of old 
stuff and Latin manuscripts. He talks well, and when 
the conversation turned upon our meeting with many 


172 THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 

things in life that we fancy we have already seen, re- 
marked that this could be easily explained, for the 
human soul was an indestructible thing, a bird that 
never dies. So long as we live it remains with us, and 
when we die flies away and. is rewarded or punished 
according to its deserts ; but after centuries, which are 
no more to the Lord than the minutes in which I 
empty this fresh mug — one more, bar-maid — the merci- 
ful Father releases it again, and it nestles in some new- 
born child. This made me laugh; but he was not at all 
disturbed and told the story of an old Pagan, a wonder- 
fully wise chap, who knew positively that his soul had 
formerly lodged in the body of a mighty hero. This 
same hero also remembered exactly where, during his 
former life, he had hung his shield, and told his asso- 
ciates. They searched and found the piece of armor, 
with the initials of the Christian and surname which had 
belonged to the philosopher in his life as a soldier, 
centuries before. This puzzled me, for you see — now 
don’t laugh — something had formerly happened to me 
very much like the Pagan’s experience. I don’t care 
much for books, and from a child have always read the 
same one. I inherited it from my dead father and the 
work is not printed, but written. I’ll show it to you 
some time — it contains the history of the brave Roland. 
Often, when absorbed in these beautiful and true stories, 
my cheeks have grown as red as fire, and I’ll confess to 
you, as I did to my travelling-companion : If I’m not 
mistaken, I’ve sat with King Charles at the board, or 
I’ve worn Roland’s chain armor in battle and in the 
tourney. I believe I have seen the Moorish king, 
Marsilia, and once when reading how the dying Roland 
wound his horn in the valley of the Roncesvalles, I felt 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


I 73 

such a pain in my throat, that it seemed as if it would 
burst, and fancied I had felt the same pain before. 
When I frankly acknowledged all this, my companion 
exclaimed that there was no doubt my soul had once 
inhabited Roland’s body, or in other words, that in a 
former life I had been the Knight Roland.” 

The musician looked at the fencing-master in amaze- 
ment and asked : “ Could you really believe that, 

Captain ? ” 

“ Why not,” replied the other. “ Nothing is im- 
possible to the Highest. At first I laughed in the man’s 
face, but his words followed me ; and when I read the 
old stories — I needn’t strain my eyes much, for at every 
line I know beforehand what the next will be — I 
couldn’t help' asking myself — In short, sir, my soul 
probably once inhabited Roland’s body, and that’s why 
I call him my ‘ fore man.’ In the course of years, it 
has become a habit to swear by him. Folly, you will 
think, but I know what I know, and now I must go. 
We will have another talk this evening, but about other 
matters. Yes, everybody in this world is a little crack- 
brained, but at least I don’t bore other people. I 
only show my craze to intimate friends, and strangers 
who ask me 07 ice about the fore man Roland rarely do 
so a second time. The score, bar-maid — There it is 
again. We must see whether the towers are properly 
garrisoned, and charge the sentinels to keep their eyes 
open. If you come prepared for battle, you may save 
yourself a walk, I’ll answer for nothing to-day. You will 
probably pass the new Rhine. Just step into my house, 
and tell my wife she needn’t wait supper for me. Or, no, 
I’ll attend to that myself; there’s something in the air, 
you’ll see it, for I have the Roncesvalles throat again.” 


*74 


THE BURGOMASTER S WIFE. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

In the big watch-house that had been erected beside 
the citadel, during the siege of the city, raised ten 
months before, city-guards and volunteers sat together 
in groups after sunset, talking over their beer or passing 
the time in playing cards by the feeble light of thin 
tallow candles. 

The embrasure where the officers’ table stood was 
somewhat better lighted. Wilhelm, who, according to 
his friend’s advice, appeared in the uniform of an ensign 
of the city-guards, seated himself at the empty board 
just after the clock in the steeple had struck ten. While 
ordering the waiter to bring him a mug of beer, Captain 
Allertssohn appeared with Junker von Warmond, who 
had taken part in the consultation at Peter Van der 
Werff ’s, and bravely earned his captain’s sash two years 
before at the capture of Brill. As this son of one of the 
richest and most aristocratic families in Holland, a 
youth whose mother had borne the name of Egmont, 
entered, he drew his hand, encased in a fencing glove, 
from the captain’s arm and said, countermanding the 
musician’s order : 

“ Nothing of that sort, waiter! The little keg from 
the Wurzburger Stein can’t be empty yet. We’ll find 
the bottom of it this evening. What do you say, 
Captain ? ” 

“ Such an arrangement will lighten the keg and not 
specially burden us,” replied the other. “ Good-evening, 
Herr Wilhelm, punctuality adorns the soldier. People 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


75 


are beginning to understand how much depends upon 
it. I have posted the men, so that they can overlook 
the country in every direction. I shall have them 
relieved from time to time, and at intervals look after 
them myself. This is good liquor, Junker. All honor 
to the man who melts his gold into such a fluid. The 
first glass must be a toast to the Prince.” 

The three men touched their glasses, and soon after 
drank to the liberty of Holland and the prosperity of 
the good city of Leyden. Then the conversation took 
a lively turn, but duty was not forgotten, for at the end 
of half an hour the captain rose to survey the horizon 
himself and urge the sentinels to vigilant watchfulness.. 

When he returned, Wilhelm and Junker von War- 
mond were so engaged in eager conversation, that they 
did not notice his entrance. The musician was speak- 
ing of Italy, and Allertssohn heard him exclaim im- 
petuously : 

“ Whoever has once seen that country can never 
forget it, and when I am sitting on the house-top with 
my doves, my thoughts only too often fly far away 
with them, and my eyes no longer see our broad, 
monotonous plains and grey, misty sky.” 

“ Oh ! ho ! Meister Wilhelm,” interrupted the cap- 
tain, throwing himself into the arm-chair and stretching 
out his booted legs. “ Oh ! ho ! This time I’ve dis- 
covered the crack in your brain. Italy, always Italy ! 
I know Italy too, for I’ve been in Brescia, looking foi 
good steel sword-blades for the Prince and other nobles, 
I crossed the rugged Apennines and went to Florence, 
to see fine pieces of armor. From Livorno I went by 
sea to Genoa, where I obtained chased gold and silver- 
work for shoulder-belts and sheaths. Truth is truth — 


176 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


the brown-skinned rascals can do fine work. But the 
country — the country! Roland, my fore man — how 
any sensible man can prefer it to ours is more than I 
understand.” 

“ Holland is our mother,” replied von Warmond. 
“ As good sons we believe her the best of women ; yet 
we can admit, without shame, that there are more beau- 
tiful ones in the world.” 

“ Do you blow that trumpet too ? ” exclaimed the 
fencing-master, pushing his glass angrily further upon 
the table. Did you ever cross the Alps ? ” 

“ No, but—” 

. “But you believe the color-daubers of the artist 
guild, whose eyes are caught by the blue of the sky and 
sea, or the musical gentry who allow themselves to be 
deluded by the soft voices and touching melodies there, 
but you would do well to listen to a quiet man too for 
once.” 

“ Go on, Captain.” 

“ Very well. And if anybody can get an untruthful 
word out of me, I’ll pay his score till the Day of Judg- 
ment. I’ll begin the story at the commencement. First 
you must cross the horrible Alps. There you see barren, 
dreary rocks, cold snow, wild glacier torrents on which 
no boat can be used. Instead of watering meadows, 
the mad waves fling stones on their banks. Then we 
reach the plains, where it is true many kinds of plants 
grow. I was there in June, and made my jokes about 
the tiny fields, where small trees stood, serving as props 
for the vines. It didn’t look amiss, but the heat, 
Junker, the heat spoiled all pleasure. And the dirt in 
the taverns, the vermin, and the talk about bravos, who 
shed the blood of honest Christians in the dark for a 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


77 


little paltry money. If your tongue dries up in your 
mouth, you’ll find nothing but hot wine, not a sip of 
cool beer. And the dust, gentlemen, the frightful dust. 
As for the steel in Brescia — it’s worthy of all honor. 
But the feather was stolen from my hat in the tavern, and 
the landlord devoured onions as if they were white bread. 
May God punish me if a single piece of honest beef, 
such as my wife can set before me every day — and we 
don’t live like princes — ever came between my teeth. 
And the butter, Junker, the butter! We burn oil in 
lamps, and grease door-hinges with it, when they creak, 
but the Italians use it to fry chickens and fish. Confound 
such doings ! ” 

“ Beware, Captain,” cried Wilhelm, “ or I shall take 
you at your word and you’ll be obliged to pay my score 
for life. Olive-oil is a pure, savory seasoning.” 

“For a man that likes it. I commend Holland 
butter. Olive-oil has its value for polishing steel, but 
butter is the right thing for roasting and frying; so 
that’s enough ! But I beg you to hear me farther. 
From Lombardy I went to Bologna, and then crossed 
the Apennines. Sometimes the road ascended, then 
suddenly plunged downward again, and it’s a queer 
pleasure, which, thank God, we are spared in this country, 
to sit in the saddle going down a mountain. On the 
right and left, lofty cliffs tower like walls. Your breath- 
ing becomes oppressed in the narrow valleys, and if you 
want to get a distant view — there’s nothing to be seen, 
for everywhere some good-for-nothing mountain thrusts 
itself directly before your nose. I believe the Lord created 
those humps for a punishment to men after Adam’s fall. 
On the sixth day of creation the earth was level. It 
was in August, and when the noon sun was reflected 


178 THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 

from the rocks, the heat was enough to kill one ; it’s a 
miracle, that I’m not sitting beside you dried up and 
baked. The famous blue of the Italian sky ! Always 
the same ! We have it here in this country too, but it 
alternates with beautiful clouds. There are few things 
in Holland I like better than our clouds. When the 
rough Apennines at last lay behind me, I reached the 
renowned city of Florence.” 

“ And can you deny it your approval ?” asked the 
musician. 

“ No, sir, there are many proud, stately palaces and 
beautiful churches and no lack of silk and velvet every- 
where, the trade of cloth-weaving too is flourishing ; but 
my health, my health was not good in your Florence, 
principally on account of the heat, and besides I found 
many things different from what I expected. In the 
first place, there’s the river Arno ! The stream is a 
puddle, nothing but a puddle ! Do you know what the 
water looks like ? Like the pools that stand between 
the broken fragments and square blocks in a stone- 
cutter’s yard, after a heavy thunder-shower.” 

“ The score, Captain, the score ! ” 

“ I mean the yard of a stone-cutter, who does 
a large business, and pools of tolerable width. Will you 
still contradict me if I maintain — the Arno is a shallow, 
narrow stream, just fit to sail a boy’s bark -boat. It 
spreads over a wide surface of grey pebbles, very much 
as the gold fringe straggles over the top of Junker von 
Warmond’s fencing-glove.” 

“You saw it at the end of a hot summer,” replied 
Wilhelm, “ it’s very different in spring.” 

“ Perhaps so ; but I beg you to remember the 
Rhine, the Meuse, and our other rivers, even the Marne, 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


179 


Drecht and whatever the smaller streams are called. 
They remain full and bear stately ships at all seasons of 
the year. Uniform and reliable is the custom of this 
country; to-day one way, to-morrow another, is the 
Italian habit. It’s just the same with the blades in the 
fencing-school.” 

“ The Italians wield dangerous weapons,” said von 
Warmond. 

“ Very true, but they bend to and fro and lack firm- 
ness. I know what I’m talking about, for I lodged 
with my colleague Torelli, the best fencing-master in 
the city. I’ll say nothing of the meals he set before 
me. To-day macaroni, to-morrow macaroni with a 
couple of chicken drumsticks to boot, and so on. I’ve 
often drawn my belt tighter after dinner. As for the art 
of fencing, Torelli is certainly no bungler, but he too 
has the skipping fashion in his method. You must keep 
your eyes open in a passado with him, but if I can once 
get to my quarte, tierce, and side-thrust, I have him.” 

“An excellent series,” said Junker von Warmond. 
“ It has been useful to me.” 

“ I know, I know,” replied the captain eagerly. 
“You silenced the French brawler with it at Namur. 
There’s the catch in my throat again. Something 
will happen to-day, gentlemen, something will surely 
happen.” 

The fencing-master grasped the front of his ruff with 
his left hand and set the glass on the table with his 
right. He had often done so far more carelessly, but 
to-day the glass shattered into many fragments. 

“ That’s nothing,” cried the young nobleman. 
“ Waiter, another glass for Captain Allertssohn.” 

The fencing-master pushed his chair back from the 


l8o THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE* 

table, and looking at the broken pieces of greenish glass, 
said in an altered tone, as if speaking to himself rather 
than his companions: 

“ Yes, yes, something serious will happen to-day. 
Shattered into a thousand pieces. As God wills! I 
know where my place is.” 

Von Warmond filled a fresh glass, saying with a 
slight shade of reproof in his tone: “Why, Captain, 
Captain, what whims are these ? Before the battle of 
Brill I fell in jumping out of the boat and broke my 
sword. I soon found another, but the idea came into 
my head: ‘you’ll meet your death to-day.’ Yet here I 
sit, and hope to empty many a beaker with you.” 

“It has passed already,” said the fencing-master, 
raising his hat and wiping the perspiration from his 
forehead with the back of his hand. “ Every one must 
meet his death-hour, and if mine is approaching to-day 
— be it as God wills! My family won’t starve. The 
house on the new Rhine is free from mortgage, and 
though they don’t inherit much else, I shall leave my 
children an honest name and trustworthy friends. I know 
you won’t lose sight of my second boy, the musician, 
Wilhelm. Nobody is indispensable, and if Heaven 
wishes to call me from this command, Junker von 
Nordwyk, Jan Van der Does, can fill my place. You, 
Herr von Warmond, are in just the right spot, and the 
good cause will reach a successful end even without 
me.” 

The musician listened with surprise to the softened 
tone of the strange man’s voice, but the young nobleman 
raised his drinking-cup, exclaiming : 

“ Such heavy thoughts for a light glass ! You make 
too much of the matter, Captain. Take your bumper 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


l8l 

again, and pledge me: Long live the noble art of 
fencing, and your series : quarte, tierce and side-thrust !” 

“ They’ll live,” replied Allertssohn, “ ay, they’ll live. 
Many hundreds of noble gentlemen use the sword in 
this country, and the man who sits here has taught 
them to wield it according to the rules. My series has 
served many in duelling, and I, Andreas, their master, 
have made tierce follow quarte and side-thrust tierce 
thousands of times, but always with buttons on the foils 
and against padded doublets. Outside the walls, in 
the battle-field, no one, often as I have pressed upon 
the leaders, has ever stood against me in single combat. 
This Brescian sword-blade has more than once pierced 
a Spanish jerkin, but the art I teach, gentlemen, the art 
I love, to which my life has been devoted* I have never 
practised in earnest. That is hard to bear, gentlemen, 
and if Heaven is disposed, before calling him away from 
earth, to grant a poor man, who is no worse than his 
neighbors, one favor, I shall be permitted to cross blades 
once in a true, genuine duel, and try my series against an 
able champion in a mortal struggle. If God would 
grant Andreas this — ” 

Before the fencing-master had finished the last sen- 
tence, an armed man dashed the door open, shouting : 

“ The light is raised at Leyderdorp ! ” 

At these words Allertssohn sprang from his chair 
as nimbly as a youth, drew himself up to his full height, 
adjusted his shoulder-belt and drew down his sash, ex- 
claiming : 

“To the citadel, Hornist, and sound the call for 
assembling the troops. To your volunteers, Captain 
Van Duivenvoorde. Post yourself with four companies 
at the Hohenort Gate, to be ready to take part, if the 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WTFE. 


I $2 

battle approaches the city-walls. The gunners must 
provide matches. Let the garrisons in the towers be 
doubled. Klaas, go to the sexton of St. Pancratius and 
tell him to ring the alarm-bell, to warn the people at 
the fair. Your hand, Junker. I know you will be at 
your post, and you, Meister Wilhelm.” 

“ I’ll go with you,” said the musician resolutely. 
“ Don’t reject me. I have remained quiet long enough ; 
I shall stifle here.” 

Wilhelm’s cheeks flushed, and his eyes sparkled 
with a lustre so bright and angry, that Junker von War- 
mond looked at his phlegmatic friend in astonishment, 
while the captain called : 

“ Then station yourself in the first company beside 
my ensign. You don’t look as if you felt like jesting, 
and the work will be in earnest now, bloody earnest.” 

Allertssohn walked out of doors with a steady step, 
addressed his men in a few curt, vigorous words, ordered 
the drummers to beat their drums, while marching 
through the city, to rouse the people at the fair, 
placed himself at the head of his trusty little band, and 
led them towards the new Rhine. 

The moon shone brightly down into the quiet streets, 
was reflected from the black surface of the river, and 
surrounded the tall peaked gables of the narrow houses 
with a silvery lustre. The rapid tramp of the soldiers 
was echoed loudly back from the houses through the 
silence of the night, and the vibration of the air, shaken 
by the beating of the drums, made the panes rattle. 

This time no merry children with paper flags and 
wooden swords preceded the warriors, this time no gay 
girls and proud mothers followed them, not even an old 
man, who remembered former days, when he himself 


the burgomaster’s wife. 183 

bore arms. As the silent troops reached the neighbor- 
hood of Allertssohn’s house, the clock in the church- 
steeple slowly struck twelve, and directly after the 
alarm-bell began to sound from the tower of Pancratius. 

A window in the second story of the fencing-master’s 
house was thrown open, and his wife’s face appeared. 
An anxious married life with her strange husband had 
prematurely aged pretty little Eva’s countenance, but 
the mild moonlight transfigured her faded features. The 
beat of her husband’s drums was familiar to her, and 
when she saw him at midnight marching past to the 
horrible call of the alarm-bell, a terrible dread over- 
powered her and would scarcely allow her to call: 
“ Husband, husband! What is the matter, Andreas?” 

He did not hear, for the roll of the drums, the 
tramp of the soldiers’ feet on the pavement and the 
ringing of the alarm-bell drowned her voice ; but he saw 
her distinctly, and a strange feeling stole over him. Her 
face, framed in a white kerchief and illumined by the 
moonlight, seemed to him fairer than he had ever seen 
it since the days of his wooing, and he felt so youthful 
and full of chivalrous daring, on his way to the field of 
danger, that he drew himself up, to his full height and 
marched by, keeping most perfect time to the beat of 
the drums, as in lover-like fashion he threw her a kiss 
with his left hand, while waving his sword in the right. 

The beating of drums and waving of banners had 
banished every gloomy thought from his mind. So he 
marched on to the Gansort. There stood a cart, the 
home of travelling traders, who had been roused from 
sleep by the alarm-bell, and were hastily collecting their 
goods. An old woman, amid bitter lamentations, was 
just harnessing a thin horse to the shafts, and from a 


j8i 


THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE. 


tiny window a child’s wailing voice was heard calling, 
“ mother, mother,” and then, “ father, father.” 

The fencing-master heard the cry. The smile faded 
from his lips, and his step grew heavier. Then he 
turned and shouted a loud “ Forward ” to his men. 
Wilhelm was marching close behind him and at a sign 
from the captain approached ; but Allertssohn, quick- 
ening his pace, seized the musician’s arm, saying in a 
low tone : 

“ You’ll take the boy to teach ?” 

“ Yes, Captain.” 

“ Good ; you’ll be rewarded for it some day,” re- 
plied the fencing-master, and waving his sword, shouted r 
“ Liberty to Holland, death to the Spaniard, long live 
Orange!” 

The soldiers joyously joined in the shout, and 
marched rapidly with him through the Hohenort Gate 
into the open country and towards Leyderdorp. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Adrian hurried home with his vial, and in his joy at 
bringing the sick lady relief, forgot her headache and 
struck the knocker violently against the door. Barbara 
received him with a by no means flattering greeting, 
but he was so full of the happiness of possessing the 
dearly -bought treasure, that he fearlessly interrupted his 
aunt’s reproving words, by exclaiming eagerly, in the 
consciousness of his good cause : 

“ You’ll see; I have something here for the young 
lady ; where is mother ?” 


THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE. 


185 

Barbara perceived that the boy was the bearer of 
some good tidings, which engrossed his whole attention, 
and the fresh happy face pleased her so much, that she 
forgot to scold and said smiling : 

‘‘You make me very curious ; what is the need of 
so much hurry ?” 

“ I’ve bought something; is mother up-stairs?” 

“ Yes, show me what you have bought.” 

‘‘ A remedy. Infallible, I tell you ; a remedy for 
headache.” 

“ A remedy for headache ?” asked the widow in 
astonishment. “ Who told you that fib ?” 

“ Fib ?” repeated the boy, laughing. “ I got it be- 
low cost.” 

*• Show it to me, boy,” said Barbara authoritatively, 
snatching at the vial, but Adrian stepped back, hid the 
medicine behind him, and replied : 

“ No, aunt ; I shall take it to mother myself.” 

“ Did one ever hear of such a thing!” cried the 
widow. “ Donkeys dance on ropes, school-boys dabble 
in doctor’s business ! Show me the thing at once ! We 
want no quack wares.” 

“ Quack wares !” replied Adrian eagerly. “ It cost 
all my fair money, and it’s good medicine.” 

During this little discussion Doctor Bontius came 
down-stairs with the burgomaster’s wife. He had heard 
the boy’s last words and asked sternly : 

“ ^ Where did you get the stuff?” 

With these words, he seized the hand of the lad, 
who did not venture to resist the stern man, took the 
little vial and printed directions from him and, after 
Adrian had curtly answered : “ From Doctor Mor- 

purgo !” continued angrily : 

35 


i86 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


“ The brew is good to be thrown away ; only we 
must take care not to poison the fishes with it, and the 
thing cost half a florin. You’re a rich young man, 
Meister Adrian ! If you have any superfluous capital 
again, you can lend it to me.” 

These words spoiled the boy’s pleasure, but did not 
convince him, and he defiantly turned half away from 
the physician. Barbara understood what was passing 
in his mind, and whispered compassionately to the doc- 
tor and her sister-in-law : 

“ All his fair money to help the young lady.” 

Maria instantly approached the disappointed child, 
drew his curly head towards her and silently kissed his 
forehead, while the doctor read the printed label, then 
without moving a muscle, said as gravely as ever : 

“ Morpurgo isn’t the worst of quacks, the remedy he 
prescribes here may do the young lady good after all.” 

Adrian had been nearer crying than laughing. Now 
he uttered a sigh of relief, but still clasped Maria’s hand 
firmly, as he again turned his face towards the doctor, 
listening intently while the latter continued : 

“Two parts buckbeans, one part pepper- wort, and 
half a part valerian. The latter specially for women. 
Let it steep in boiling water and drink a cupful cold 
every morning and evening ! Not bad — really not bad. 
You have found a good remedy, my worthy colleague. 
I had something else to say to you, Adrian. My boys 
are going to the English riders this evening, and would 
be glad to have you accompany them. You can begin 
with the decoction to-day.” 

The physician bowed to the ladies and went on; 
Barbara followed him into the street, asking : 

“ Are you in earnest about the prescription ?” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 1 87 

“Of course, of course,” replied the doctor, “my 
grandmother used this remedy for headache, and she 
was a sensible woman. Evening and morning, and the 
proper amount of sleep.” 

Henrica occupied a pretty, tastefully-furnished room. 
The windows looked out upon the quiet court-yard, 
planted with trees, adjoining the chamois-leather work- 
shops. She was allowed to sit up part of the day in a 
cushioned arm-chair, supported by pillows. Her healthy 
constitution was rapidly rallying. True, she was still 
weak, and the headache spoiled whole days and nights. 
Maria’s gentle and thoughtful nature exerted a beneficial 
influence upon her, and she cheerfully welcomed Bar- 
bara, with her fresh face and simple, careful, helpful ways. 

When Maria told her about the purchase Adrian 
had made for her, she was moved to tears ; but to the 
boy she concealed her grateful emotion under jesting 
words, and greeted him with the exclamation : 

“ Come nearer, my preserver, and give me your 
hand.” 

Afterwards, she always called him “ my preserver ” 
or, as she liked to mingle Italian words with her Dutch, 
“ Salvatore ” or “ Signor Salvatore.” She was particu- 
larly fond of giving the people, with whom she 
associated, names of her own, and so called Barbara, 
whose Christian name she thought frightful, “ Babetta,” 
and little slender, pretty Bessie, whose company she 
specially enjoyed, “ the elf.” The burgomaster’s wife 
only remained “ Frau Maria,” and when the latter once 
jestingly asked the cause of such neglect, Henrica 
replied that she suited her name and her name her; had 
she been called Martha, she would probably have named 
her “ Maria.” 


i88 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


The invalid had passed a pleasant, painless day, and 
when towards evening Adrian went to see the English 
riders and the fragrance of the blooming lindens and 
the moonlight found their way through the open 
windows of her room, she begged Barbara not to bnng 
a light, and invited Maria to sit down and talk with 
her. 

From Adrian and Bessie the conversation turned 
upon their own childhood. Henrica had grown up 
among her father’s boon companions, amid the clinking 
of glasses and hunting-shouts, Maria in a grave burgher 
household, and what they told each other seemed like 
tidings from a strange world. 

“ It was easy for you to become the tall, white lily 
you are now,” said Henrica, “but I must thank the saints, 
that I came off as well as I did, for we really grew up 
like weeds, and if I hadn’t had a taste for singing 
and the family priest hadn’t been such an admirable 
musician, I might stand before you in a still worse guise. 
When will the doctor let me hear you sing ?” 

“ Next week ; but you musn’t expect too much. 
You have too high an opinion of me. Remember the 
proverb about still waters. Here in the depths it often 
looks far less peaceful, than you probably suppose.” 

“ But you have learned to keep the surface calm 
when it storms; I haven’t. A strange stillness has 
stolen over me here. Whether I owe it to illness or to the 
atmosphere that pervades this house, I can’t tell , but 
how long will it last ? My soul used to lie like the sea, 
when the hissing waves plunge into black gulfs, the sea- 
gulls scream, and the fishermen’s wives pray on the 
shore. Now the sea is calm. Don’t be too much 
frightened, if it begins to rage again.” 


THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE. 1 89 

At these words Maria clasped the excited girl’s 
hands, saying beseechingly : 

“ Be quiet, be quiet, Henrica. You must think only 
of your recovery now. And shall I confess something ? 
I believe everything hard can be more easily borne, if 
we can cast it impatiently forth like the sea of which 
you speak ; with me one thing is piled on another and 
remains lying there, as if buried under the sand.” 

“Until the hurricane comes, that sweeps it away. I 
don’t want to be an evil prophet, but you surely re- 
member these words. What a wild, careless thing I 
was ! Then a day came, that made a complete revo- 
lution in my whole nature.” 

“Did a false love wound you?” asked Maria 
modestly. 

“ No, except the false love of another,” replied Hen- 
rica bitterly. “When I was a child this fluttering heart 
often throbbed more quickly, I don’t know how often. 
First I felt something more than reverence for the one- 
eyed chaplain, our music- teacher, and every morning 
placed fresh flowers on his window, which he never 
noticed. Then — I was probably fifteen — I returned the 
ardent glances of Count Brederode’s pretty page. Once 
he tried to be tender, and received a blow from my 
riding- whip. Next came a handsome young nobleman, 
who wanted to marry me when I was barely sixteen, but 
he was even more heavily in debt than my father, so he 
was sent home. I shed no tears for him, and when, two 
months after, at a tournament in Brussels, I saw Don 
Frederic, the son of the great Duke of Alva, fancied 
myself as much in love with him as ever any lady wor- 
shipped her Amadis, though the affair never went be- 
yond looks. Then the storm, of which I have already 


I go the burgomaster’s wife. 

spoken, burst, and that put an end to love-making. I 
will tell you more about this at some future time ; I need 
not conceal it, for it has been no secret. Have you 
ever heard of my sister? No ? She was older than I, 
a creature — God never created anything more perfect. 
And her singing! She came to my dead aunt’s, and 
there — But I won’t excite myself uselessly— -in short, 
the man whom she loved with all the strength of her 
heart thrust her into misery, and my father cursed and 
would not stretch out a finger to aid her. I never knew 
my mother, but through Anna I never missed her. My 
sister’s fate opened my eyes to men. During the last 
few years many have wanted me, but I lacked confi- 
dence and, still more, love, for I shall never have 
anything to do with that.” 

“ Until it finds you,” replied Maria. “It was wrong 
to speak of such things with you, it excites you, and that 
is bad.” 

“Never mind; it will do me good to relieve my 
heart. Did you love no one before your husband ?” 

“ Love ? No, Henrica, I never really loved any 
one except him.” 

“ And your heart waited for the burgomaster, ere it 
beat faster ?” 

“No, it had not always remained quiet before; I 
grew up among social people, old and young, and of 
course liked some better than others.” 

“ And surely one best of all.” 

“I won’t deny it. At my sister’s wedding, my 
brother-in-law’s friend, a young nobleman, came from 
Germany and remained several weeks with us. I liked 
him, and remember him kindly even now.” 

“ Have you never heard from him again ?” * 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 191 

“No; who knows what has become of him. My 
brother-in-law expected great things from him, and he 
possessed many rare gifts, but was reckless, fool-hardy, 
and a source of constant anxiety to his mother.” 

“ You must tell me more about him.” 

“What is the use, Henrica ?” 

“ I don’t want to talk any more, but I should like 
to lie still, inhale the fragrance of the lindens, and listen, 
only listen.” 

“ No, you must go to bed now. I’ll help you un- 
dress and, when you have been alone an hour, come 
back again.” 

“ One learns obedience in your house, but when my 
preserver comes home, bring him here. He must tell 
me about the English riders. There comes Frau Babetta 
with his decoction. You shall see that I take it 
punctually.” 

The boy returned home late, for he had enjoyed all 
the glories of the fair with the doctor’s children. He 
was permitted to pay only a short visit to Henrica, and 
did not see his father at all, the latter having gone to a 
night council at Herr Van Bronkhorst’s. 

The next morning the fair holidays were to end, 
school would begin and Adrian had intended to finish 
his tasks this evening; but the visit to the English riders 
had interfered, and he could not possibly appear before 
the rector without his exercise. He frankly told Maria 
so, and she cleared a place for him at the table where 
she was sewing, and helped the young scholar with 
many a word and rule she had learned with her dead 
brother. 

When it lacked only half an hour of midnight, 
Barbara entered, saying : 


192 


THE BURGOMASTER S WIFE. 


“ That’s enough now. You can finish the rest early 
to-morrow morning before school. ” 

Without waiting for Maria’s reply, she closed the 
boy’s books and pushed them together. 

While thus occupied, the room shook with rude 
blows on the door of the house. Maria threw down 
her sewing and started from her seat, while Barbara 
exclaimed : 

“For Heaven’s sake, what is it?” Adrian rushed 
into his father’s room and opened the window. 

The ladies had hurried after him, and before they 
could question the disturber of the peace, a deep voice 
called : 

“ Open, I must come in.” 

“ What is it ?” asked Barbara, who recognized a 
soldier in the moonlight. “We can’t hear our own 
voices ; stop that knocking.” 

“ Call the burgomaster !” shouted the messenger, 
who had been constantly using the knocker. “ Quick, 
woman ; the Spaniards are coming.” 

Barbara shrieked aloud and beat her hands. Maria 
turned pale, but without losing her composure, replied : 

“ The burgomaster is not at home, but I’ll send for 
him. Quick, Adrian, call your father.” 

The boy rushed down-stairs, meeting in the entry 
the man-servant and Trautchen, who had jumped hastily 
out of bed, throwing on an under-petticoat, and was 
now trying, with trembling hands, to unlock the door. 
The man pushed her aside, and as soon as the door 
creaked on its hinges, Adrian darted out and ran, as if 
in a race, down the street to the commissioner’s. Arriv 
ing before any other messenger, he pressed through the 
open door into the dining-hall and called breathlessly 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


93 


to the men, who were holding a council over their 
wine : 

“ The Spaniards are here ! ” 

The gentlemen hastily rose from their seats. One 
wanted to rush to the citadel, another to the town-hall 
and, in the excitement of the moment, no sensible 
reflection was made. Peter Van der Werff alone main- 
tained his composure and, after Allertssohn’s messenger 
had appeared and reported that the captain and his men 
were On the way to Leyderdorp, the burgomaster 
pointed out that the leaders’ care should now be de- 
voted to the people who had come to the fair. He and 
Van Hout undertook to provide for them, and Adrian 
was soon standing with his father and the city clerk 
among the crowds of people, who had been roused 
from sleep by the wailing iron voice from the Tower of 
Pancratius. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Adrian’s activity for this night was not yet over, for 
his father did not prevent his accompanying him to the 
town-hall. There he directed him to tell his mother, 
that he should be busy until morning and the servant 
might send all persons, who desired to speak to him 
after one o’clock, to the timber-market on the Rhine. 
Maria sent the boy back to the town-hall, to ask his 
father if he did not want his cloak, wine, a lunch or 
anything of the sort. 

The boy fulfilled this commission with great zeal, 
for he never had felt so important as while forcing his 


194 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


way through the crowds that had gathered in the nar- 
rower streets ; he had a duty to perform, and at night, 
the time when other boys were asleep, especially his 
school-mates, who certainly would not be allowed to 
leave the house now. Besides, an eventful period, full 
of the beating of drums, the blare of trumpets, the rattle 
of musketry and roar of cannon might be expected. It 
seemed as if the game “ Holland against Spain ” was to 
be continued in earnest, and on a grand scale. All the 
vivacity of his years seized upon him, and when he had 
forced a way with his elbows to less crowded places, he 
dashed hurriedly along, shouting as merrily as if spread- 
ing some joyful news in the darkness : 

“ They are coming!” “the Spaniards!” or “ Hannibal 
ante portas .” 

After learning on his return to the town-hall, that his 
father wanted nothing and would send a constable if 
there was need of anything, he considered his errand 
done and felt entitled to satisfy his curiosity. 

This drew him first to the English riders. The tent 
where they had given their performances had dis- 
appeared from the earth, and screaming men and 
women were rolling up large pieces of canvas, fastening 
packs, and swearing while they harnessed horses. The 
gloomy light of torches mingled with the moonbeams 
and showed him on the narrow steps, that led to a large 
four-wheeled cart, a little girl in shabby clothes, weeping 
bitterly. Could this be the rosy-cheeked angel who, 
floating along on the snow-white pony, had seemed to 
him like a happy creature from more beautiful worlds ? 
A scolding old woman now lifted the child into the cart, 
but he followed the crowd and saw Doctor Morpurgo, 
no longer clad in scarlet, but in plain dark cloth, 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


*95 


mounted on a lean horse, riding beside his cart. The 
negro was furiously urging the mule forward, but his 
master seemed to have remained in full possession of 
the calmness peculiar to him. His wares were of 
small value, and the Spaniards had no reason to take 
his head and tongue, by which he gained more than he 
needed. 

Adrian followed him to the long row of booths in 
the wide street, and there saw things, which put an end 
to his thoughtlessness and made him realize, that the 
point in question now concerned serious, heart-rending 
matters. He had still been able to laugh as he saw the 
ginger-bread bakers and cotton-sellers fighting hand to 
hand, because in the first fright they had tossed their 
packages of wares hap-hazard into each other’s open 
chests, and were now unable to separate their property ; 
but he felt sincerely sorry for the Delft crockery-dealer 
on the corner, whose light booth had been demolished 
by a large wagon from Gouda, loaded with bales, and 
who now stood beside her broken wares, by means of 
which she supported herself and children, wringing her 
hands, while the driver, taking no notice of her, urged 
on his horses with loud cracks of his whip. A little 
girl, who had lost her parents and was being carried 
away by a compassionate burgher woman, was weeping 
piteously. A poor rope-dancer, who had been robbed 
by a, thief in the crowd, of the little tin box containing 
the pennies he had collected, was running about, 
wringing his hands and looking for the watchman. A 
shoemaker was pounding riding-boots and women’s 
shoes in motley confusion into a wooden chest with rope 
handles, while his wife, instead of helping him, tore her 
hair and shrieked : “ I told you so, you fool, you 


9 6 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


simpleton, you blockhead ! They’ll come and rob us 
of everything.” 

At the entrance of the street that led past the Assen- 
delft house to the Leibfrau Bridge, several loaded 
wagons had become entangled, and the drivers, instead 
of getting down and procuring help, struck at each 
other in their terror, hitting the women and children 
seated among the bales. Their cries and shrieks echoed 
a long distance, but were destined to be drowned, for a 
dancing-bear had broken loose and was putting every 
one near him to flight. The people, who were fright- 
ened by the beast, rushed down the street, screaming 
and yelling, dragging with them others who did not 
know the cause of the alarm, and misled by the most 
imminent fear, roared : “ The Spaniards ! The Span- 
iards!” Whatever came in the way of the terrified 
throngs was overthrown. A sieve-dealer’s child, stand- 
ing beside its father’s upset cart, fell beneath the mob 
close beside Adrian, who had stationed himself in the 
door-way of a house. But the lad was crowded so 
closely into his hiding-place, that he could not spring to 
the little one’s aid, and his attention was attracted to a 
new sight, as Janus Dousa appeared on horseback. In 
answer to the cry of “ The Spaniards ! The Spaniards ! ” 
he shouted loudly : “ Quiet, people, quiet ! The enemy 
hasn’t come yet! To the Rhine! Vessels are waiting 
there for all strangers. To the Rhine ! There are no 
Spaniards there, do you hear, no Spaniards ! ” 

The nobleman stopped just before Adrian, for his 
horse could go no farther and stood snorting and trem- 
bling under his rider. The advice bore little fruit, and 
not until hundreds had rushed past him, did the 
frightened crowd diminish. The bear, from which they 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


1 9 7 


fled, had been caught by a brewer’s apprentice and 
taken back to its owner long before. The city con- 
stables now appeared, led by Adrian’s father, and the 
boy followed them unobserved to the timber-market on 
the southern bank of the Rhine. There another crowd 
met him, for many dealers had hurried thither to save 
their property in the ships. Men and women pressed 
past bales and wares, that were being rolled down the 
narrow wooden bridges to the vessels. A woman, a 
child, and a rope-maker’s cart had been pushed into 
the water, and the wildest confusion prevailed around 
the spot. But the burgomaster reached the place just 
at the right time, gave directions for rescuing the drown- 
ing people, and then made every exertion to bring order 
out of the confusion. 

The constables were commanded to admit fugitives 
only on board the vessels bound for the places where 
they belonged; two planks were laid to every ship, one 
for goods, the other for passengers ; the constables 
loudly shouted that — as the law directed when the 
alarm-bell rang — all citizens of Leyden must enter their 
houses and the streets be cleared, on pain of a heavy 
penalty. All the city gates were opened for the passage 
of wheeled vehicles, except the Hohenort Gate, 
which led to Leyderdorp, where egress was refused. 
Thus the crowd in the streets was lessened, order 
appeared amid the tumult, and when, in the dawn of 
morning, Adrian turned his steps towards home, there 
was little more bustle in the streets than on ordinary 
nights. 

His mother and Barbara had been anxious, but he 
told them about his father and in what manner he had 
put a stop to the confusion. 


198 THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE. 

While talking, the rattle of musketry was heard in 
the distance, awaking such excitement in Adrian’s mind, 
that he wanted to rush out again; but his mother 
stopped him and he was obliged to mount the stairs to 
his room. He did not go to sleep, but climbed to the 
upper loft in the gable of the rear building and gazed 
through the window, to which the bales of leather were 
raised by pulleys, towards the east, from whence the 
sound of firing was still audible. But he saw nothing 
except the dawn and light clouds of smoke, that 
assumed a rosy hue as they floated upward. As nothing 
new appeared, his eyes closed, and he fell asleep beside 
the open window where he dreamed of a bloody battle 
and the English riders. His slumber was so sound, that 
he did not hear the rumble of wheels in the quiet court- 
yard below him. The carts from which the noise pro- 
ceeded belonged to traders from neighboring cities, who 
preferred to leave their goods in the threatened town, 
rather than carry them towards the advancing Spaniards. 
Meister Peter had allowed some of them to store their 
property with him. The carts were obliged to pass 
through the back-building with the workshops, and the 
goods liable to be injured by the weather, were to be 
placed in the course of the day in the large, garrets 
of his house. 

The burgomaster’s wife had gone to Henrica at mid- 
night to soothe her fears, but the sick girl seemed free 
from all anxiety, and when she heard that the Spaniards 
were on the march, her eyes sparkled joyously. Maria 
noticed it and turned away from her guest, but she 
repressed the harsh words that sprang to her lips, wished 
her good-night, and left the chamber. 

Henrica gazed thoughtfully after her and then rose, 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


I 99 


for no sleep was possible that night. The alarm-bell in 
the Tower of Pancratius rang incessantly, and more 
than once doors opened, voices and shots were heard. 
Many tones and noises, whose origin and nature she 
could not understand, reached her ears, and when 
morning dawned, the court-yard under her windows, 
usually so quiet, was full of bustle. Carts rattled, loud 
tones mingled excitedly, and a deep masculine voice 
seemed to be directing what was going on. Her 
curiosity and restlessness increased every moment. She 
listened so intently that her head began to ache 
again, but could hear only separate words and those 
very indistinctly. Had the city been surrendered to the 
Spaniards, had King Philip’s soldiers found quarters in 
the burgomaster’s house ? Her blood boiled indignantly, 
when she thought of the Castilians’ triumph and the 
humiliation of her native land, but soon her former 
joyous excitement again filled her mind, as she beheld 
in imagination art re-enter the bare walls of the Leyden 
churches, now robbed of all their ornaments, chanting 
processions move through the streets, and priests in rich 
robes celebrating mass in the newly-decorated taber- 
nacles, amid beautiful music, the odor of incense, and 
the ringing of bells. She expected to receive from 
the Spaniards a place where she could pray and free 
her soul by confession. Amid her former surroundings 
nothing had afforded her any support, except her religion. 
A worthy priest, who was also her instructor, had zeal- 
ously striven to prove to her, that the new religion 
threatened to destroy the mystical consecration of life, 
the yearning for the beautiful, every ideal emotion of 
the human soul, and with them art also; so Henrica 
preferred to see her native land Spanish and Catholic, 


200 THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 

rather than free from the foreigners whom she hated 
and Calvinistical. 

The court-yard gradually became less noisy, but 
when the first rays of morning light streamed into her 
windows, the bustle again commenced and grew louder. 
Heavy soles tramped upon the pavement, and amid the 
voices that now mingled with those she had formerly 
heard, she fancied she distinguished Maria’s and Bar- 
bara’s. Yes, she was not mistaken. That cry of terror 
must proceed from her friend’s mouth, and was followed 
by exclamations of grief from bearded lips and loud 
sobs. 

Evil tidings must have reached her host’s house, and 
the woman weeping so impetuously below was probably 
kind “ Babetta.” 

Anxiety drove her from her bed. On the little table 
beside it, amid several bottles and glasses, the lamp and 
the box of matches, stood the tiny bell, at whose faint 
sound one of her nurses invariably hastened in. Hen- 
rica rang it three times, then again and again, but 
nobody appeared. Then her hot blood boiled, and 
half from impatience and vexation, half from curiosity 
and sympathy, she slipped into her shoes, threw on a 
morning dress, went to the chair which stood on the 
platform in the niche, opened the Window, and looked 
down at the groups gathered below. 

No one noticed her, for the men who stood there 
sorrowing, and the weeping women, among whom were 
Maria and Barbara, were listening with many tokens of 
sympathy to the eager words of a young man, and had 
eyes and ears for him alone. Henrica recognized in the 
speaker the musician Wilhelm, but only by his voice, 
for the morion on his curls and the blood-stained coat 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


201 


of mail gave the unassuming artist a martial, nay heroic 
air. 

He had advanced a long way in his story, when 
Henrica unseen became a listener. 

“Yes, sir,” he replied, in answer to a question from 
the burgomaster, “we followed them, but they disap- 
peared in the village and all remained still. To risk 
storming the houses, would have been madness. So we 
kept quiet, but towards two o’clock heard firing in the 
neighborhood of Leyderdorp. ‘Junker von Warmond 
lias made a sally,’ said the captain, leading us in the 
direction of the firing. This was what the Spaniards 
had wanted, for long before we reached the goal, a com- 
pany of Castilians, with white sheets over their armor, 
climbed out of a ditch in the dim light, threw themselves 
on their knees, murmured a ‘ Pater-noster,’ shouted their 
San Jago and pressed forward upon us. We had seen 
them in time for the halberdiers to extend their pikes, 
and the musketeers to lie down amid the grass. So the 
Spaniards had a warm reception, and four of them fell 
in this attack. We were superior in numbers, and their 
captain led them back to the ditch in good order. There 
they halted, for their duty was probably to detain us and 
then have us cut down by a larger body. We were too 
weak to drive them from their position, but when the 
east began to brighten and they still did not come for- 
ward, the captain advanced towards them with the 
drummer, bearing a white flag, and shouted to them in 
Italian, which he had learned to speak a little in Italy, 
that he wished the Castilian gentlemen good-morning, 
and if there was any officer with a sense of honor among 
them, let him come forth and meet a captain who wished 
to cross swords with him. He pledged his word, that 
36 


202 


THE BURGOMASTERS WIFE. 


his men would look on at the duel without taking any 
share in it, no matter what the result might be. Just at 
that moment two shots were fired from the ditch and the 
bullets whizzed close by the poor captain. We called 
to him to save his life, but he did not stir, and shouted 
that they were cowards and assassins, like their king. 

“ Meantime it had grown tolerably light — we heard 
them calling to and fro from the ditch, and just as 
Allertssohn was turning away, an officer sprang into the 
meadow, exclaiming: ‘Stand, braggart, and draw your 
blade.’ 

“The captain drew his Brescian sword, bowed to his 
enemy as if he were in the fencing-school, bent the steel 
and closed with the Castilian. The latter was a thin 
man of stately figure and aristocratic bearing, and as it 
soon appeared, a dangerous foe. He circled like a whirl- 
wind, round the captain with bounds, thrusts and feints, 
but Allertssohn maintained his composure, and at first 
confined himself to skilful parrying. Then he dealt a 
magnificent quarte, and when the other parried it, 
followed with the tierce, and this being warded off, gave 
with the speed of lightning a side-thrust such as only 
he can deal. The Castilian fell on his knees, for the 
Brescian blade had pierced his lungs. His death was 
speedy. 

“ As soon as he lay on the turf, the Spaniards again 
rushed upon us, but we repulsed them and took the 
officer’s body in our midst. Never have I seen the 
captain so proud and happy. You, Junker von War- 
mond, can easily guess the cause. He had now done 
honor to his series in a genuine duel against an enemy 
of equal rank, and told me this was the happiest morn- 
ing of his life. Then he ordered us to march round the 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


203 


ditch and attack the enemy on the flank. But scarcely 
had we begun to move, when the expected troops from 
Leyderdorp pressed forward, their loud San Jago re- 
sounding far and wide, while at the same time the old 
enemy rose from the ditch and attacked us. Allertssohn 
rushed forward, but did not reach them — oh, gentle- 
men ! I shall never forget it, a bullet struck him down 
at my side. It probably pierced his heart, for he said 
nothing but : ‘ Remember the boy !’ stretched out his 

powerful frame and died. We wanted to bear his body 
away with us, but were pressed by superior numbers, 
and it was hard enough to come within range of Junker 
von Warmond’s volunteers. The Spaniards did not 
venture so far. Here we are. The Castilian’s body is 
lying in the tower at the Hohenort Gate. These are 
the papers we found in the dead man’s doublet, and 
this is his ring ; he has a proud escutcheon.” 

Peter Van der Werff took the dead man’s letter-case 
in his hand, looked through it and said : “ His name 

was Don Luis d’Avila.” 

He said no more, for his wife had seen Henrica’s 
head stretched far out of the window, and cried loudly 
in terror: “ Fraulein, for Heaven’s sake, Fraulein — 
what are you doing ?” 


CHAPTER XX. 

The burgomaster’s wife had been anxious about 
Henrica, but the latter greeted her with special cheerful- 
ness and met her gentle reproaches with the assurance 
that this morning had done her good. Fate, she said. 


204 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


was just, and if it were true that confidence of recovery 
helped the physician, Doctor Bontius would have an easy 
task with her. The dead Castilian must be the wretch, 
who had plunged her sister Anna into misery. Maria, 
surprised, but entirely relieved, left her and sought her 
husband to tell him how she had found the invalid, and 
in what relation the Spanish officer, slain by Allertssohn, 
seemed to have stood to Henrica and her sister. Peter 
only half listened to her, and when Barbara brought him 
a freshly-ironed ruff, interrupted his wife in the middle of 
her story, gave her the dead man’s letter-case, and said : 

“There, let her satisfy herself, and bring it to me 
again in the evening, I shall hardly be able to come to 
dinner; I suppose you’ll see poor Allertssohn’s widow 
in the course of the day.” 

“Certainly,” she answered eagerly. “Whom will 
you appoint in his place ?” 

“That is for the Prince to decide.” 

“Have you thought of any means of keeping the 
communication with Delft free from the enemy?” 

“On your mother’s account?” 

“ Not solely. Rotterdam also lies to the south. We 
can expect nothing from Haarlem and Amsterdam, that 
is, from the north, for everything there is in the hands of 
the Spaniards.” 

“ I’ll get you a place in the council of war. Where 
do you learn your wisdom ?” 

“We have our thoughts, and isn’t it natural that I 
should rather follow you into the future with my eyes 
open, than blindly? Has the English troop been used 
to secure the fortifications on the old canal? Kaak too 
is an important point.” 

Peter gazed at his wife in amazement, and the sense 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


205 


of discomfort experienced by an unskilful writer, when 
some one looks over his shoulder, stole over him. She 
had pointed out a bad, momentous error, which, it is 
true, did not burden him alone, and as he certainly did 
not wish to defend it to her, and moreover might have 
found justification difficult, he made no reply, saying 
nothing but: “Men’s affairs! Good-bye until evening.” 
With these words he walked past Barbara, towards the 
door. 

Maria did not know how it happened, but before he 
laid his hand on the latch she gained sufficient self-com- 
mand to call after him : 

“ Are you going so, Peter ! Is that right ? What 
did you promise me on your return from the journey to 
the Prince ?” 

“ I know, I know,” he answered impatiently. “ We 
cannot serve two masters, and in these times I beg you 
not to trouble me with questions and matters that don’t 
concern you. To direct the business of the city is my 
affair; you have your invalid, the children, the poor; let 
that suffice.” 

Without waiting for her reply he left the room, while 
she stood motionless, gazing after him. 

Barbara watched her anxiously for several minutes, 
then busied herself with the papers on her brother’s 
writing-table, saying as if to herself, though turning 
slightly towards her sister-in-law : 

“ Evil times ! Let every one, who is not oppressed 
with such burdens as Peter, thank the Lord. He has 
to bear the responsibility of everything, and people 
can’t dance lightly with hundred-pound weights on 
their legs. Nobody has a better heart, and nobody 
means more honestly. How the traders at the fair 


20 6 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


praised his caution ! In the storm people know the 
pilot, and Peter was always greatest, when things were 
going worst. He knows what he is undertaking, but 
the last few weeks have aged him years.” 

Maria nodded. Barbara left the room, but returning 
after a few minutes, said beseechingly : 

“ You look ill, child, come and lie down. An hour’s 
sleep is better than three meals. At your age, such a 
night as this last one doesn’t pass without leaving traces. 
The sun is shining so brightly, that I’ve drawn your 
window-curtains. I’ve made your bed, too. Be sensible 
and come.” 

While uttering the last words, she took Maria’s hand 
and drew her away. The young wife made no resist- 
ance, and though her eyes did not remain dry when she 
was alone, sleep soon overpowered her. 

Towards noon, refreshed by slumber, and newly 
dressed, she went to the captain’s house. Her own 
heart was heavy, and compassion for herself and her 
own fate again had the mastery. Eva Peterstochter, 
the fencing-master’s widow, a quiet, modest woman, 
whom she scarcely knew by sight, did not appear. She 
was sitting alone in her room, weeping, but Maria found 
in her house the musician, Wilhelm, who had spoken 
comforting words to his old friend’s son, and promised 
to take charge of him and make him a good performer. 

The burgomaster’s wife sent a message to the widow, 
begging to see her the next day, and then went out into 
the street with Wilhelm. Everywhere groups of citizens, 
women, and journeymen were standing together, talking 
about what had happened and the coming trouble. 
While Maria was telling the musician who the dead 
Castilian was, and that Henrica desired to speak with 


THE BURGOMASTER^ WIFtf. 20 ) 

him, Wilhelm, as soon as possible, she was interrupted 
more than once; for sometimes a company of volunteers 
or city guards, relieved from duty in the towers and on 
the walls, sometimes a cannon barred their way. Was it 
the anticipation of coming events, or the beat of drums 
and blare of trumpets, which so excited her companion, 
that he often pressed his hand to his forehead and she 
was obliged to request him to slacken his pace. There 
was a strange, constrained tone in his voice as, in ac- 
cordance with her request, he told her that the 
Spaniards had come by ship up the Amstel, the Drecht, 
and the Brasem See to the Rhine and landed at Ley- 
derdorp. 

A mounted messenger wearing the Prince’s colors, 
and followed not only by children, but by grown persons, 
who ran after him eager to reach the town-hall at the 
same time, interrupted Wilhelm, and as soon as the 
crowd had passed, the burgomaster’s wife asked her 
companion one question after another. The noise of 
war, the firing audible in the distance, the gay military 
costumes everywhere to be seen in place of the darker 
citizens’ dress, also aroused her eager interest, and what 
she learned from Wilhelm was little calculated to 
diminish it. The main body of the Spanish troops was 
on the way to the Hague. The environment of the 
city had commenced, but the enemy could hardly suc- 
ceed in his purpose; for the English auxiliaries, who 
were to defend the new fortifications of Valkenburg, the 
village of Alfen, and the Gouda sluice might be trusted. 
Wilhelm had seen the British soldiers, their commander, 
Colonel Chester, and Captain Gensfort, and praised their 
superb equipments and stately bearing. 

On reaching her own house, Maria attempted to 


208 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


take leave of her companion, but the latter earnestly 
entreated permission to have an interview with Henrica 
at once, and could scarcely be convinced that he must 
have patience until the doctor had given his consent. 

At dinner Adrian, who when his father was not 
present, talked freely enough, related all sorts of things 
he had seen himself, as well as news and rumors heard 
at school and in the street, his eloquence being no little 
encouraged by his step-mother’s eager questions. 

Intense anxiety had taken possession of the burgo- 
master’s wife. Her enthusiasm for the cause of liberty, 
to which her most beloved relatives had fallen victims, 
blazed brightly, and wrath against the oppressors of her 
native land seethed passionately in her breast. The 
delicate, maidenly, reserved woman, who was utterly 
incapable of any loud or rude expression of feeling in 
ordinary life, would now have rushed to the walls, like 
Kanau Hasselaer of Haarlem, to fight the foe among 
the men. 

Offended pride, and everything that an hour ago 
had oppressed her heart, yielded to sympathy for her 
country’s cause. Animated with fresh courage, she went 
to Henrica and, as evening had closed in, sat down by 
the lamp to write to her mother ; for she had neglected 
to do so since the invalid’s arrival, and communication 
with Delft might soon be interrupted. 

When she read over the completed letter, she was 
satisfied with it and herself, for it breathed firm con- 
fidence in the victory of the good cause, and also 
distinctly and unconstrainedly expressed her cheerful 
willingness to bear the worst. 

Barbara had retired when Peter at last appeared, so 
weary that he could scarcely touch the meal that had 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


209 


been kept ready for him. While raising the food to his 
lips, he confirmed the news Maria had already heard from 
the musician, and was gentle and kind, but his appear- 
ance saddened her, for it recalled Barbara’s allusion to 
the heavy burden he had assumed. To-day, for the first 
time, she noticed two deep lines that anxiety had fur- 
rowed between his eyes and lips, and full of tender 
compassion, went behind him, laid her hands on his 
cheeks and kissed him on the forehead. He trembled 
slightly, seized her slender right hand so impetuously 
that she shrank back, raised it first to his lips, then to 
his eyes, and held it there for several minutes. 

At last he rose, passed before her into his sleeping- 
room, bade her an affectionate good-night, and lay down 
to rest. When she too sought her bed, he was breathing 
heavily. Extreme fatigue had quickly overpowered 
him. The slumber of both was destined to be frequently 
interrupted during this night, and whenever Maria 
woke, she heard her husband sigh and moan. She did 
not stir, that she might not disturb the sleep he sought 
and needed, and twice held her breath, for he was talk- 
ing to himself. First he murmured softly : “ Heavy, 

too heavy,” and then : “ If I can only bear it.” 

When she awoke next morning, he had already left 
the room and gone to the town-hall. At noon he re- 
turned home, saying that the Spaniards had taken the 
Hague and been hailed with delight by the pitiful 
adherents of the king. Fortunately, the well-disposed 
citizens and Beggars had had time to escape to Delft, for 
brave Nicolas Ruichhaver had held the foe in check 
for a time at Geestburg. The west was still open, and 
the newly-fortified fort of Valkenburg, garrisoned by 
the English soldiers, would not be so easy to storm. On 


2 10 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


the east, other British auxiliaries were posted at Alfen in 
the Spaniards’ rear. 

The burgomaster told all this unasked, but did not 
speak as freely and naturally as when conversing with 
men. While talking, he often looked into his plate and 
hesitated. It seemed as if he were obliged to impose 
a certain restraint upon himself, in order to speak before 
women, servants, and children, of matters he was in the 
habit of discussing only with men of his own position. 
Maria listened attentively, but maintained a modest 
reserve, urging him only by loving looks and sympa- 
thizing exclamations, while Barbara boldly asked one 
question after another. 

The meal was approaching an end, when Junker von 
Warmond entered unannounced, and requested the 
burgomaster to accompany him at once, for Colonel 
Chester was standing before the White Gate with a 
portion of his troops, asking admittance to the city. 

At these tidings, Peter dashed his mug of beer 
angrily on the table, sprang from his seat, and left the 
room before the nobleman. 

During the late hours of the afternoon, the Van der 
Werff house was crowded with people. The gossips 
came to talk over with Barbara the events occurring at 
the White Gate. Burgomaster Van Swieten’s wife had 
heard from her own husband, that the Englishmen, with- 
out making any resistance, had surrendered the beautiful 
new fort of Valkenburg and taken to their heels, at the 
mere sight of the Spaniards. The enemy had marched 
out from Haarlem through the downs above Nordwyk, 
and it would have been an easy matter for the Britons 
to hold the strong position. 

“ Fine aid such helpers give !” cried Barbara indig- 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


21 I 


nantly. “ Let Queen Elizabeth keep the men on her 
island for herself, and send us the women.” 

“Yet they are real sons of Anak, and bear them- 
selves like trim soldiers,” said the wife of the magistrate 
Heemskerk. “ High boots, doublets of fine leather, gay 
plumes in their morions and hats, large coats of mail, 
halberds that would kill half a dozen — and all like new.” 

“ They probably didn’t want to spoil them, and so 
found a place of safety as soon as possible, the windy 
cowards,” cried the wife of Church-warden de Haes, 
whose sharp tongue was well known. “You seem to 
have looked at them very closely, Frau Margret.” 

“ From the wind-mill at the gate,” replied the other. 
“ The envoy stopped on the bridge directly under us. 
A handsome man on a stately horse. His trumpeter 
too was mounted, and the velvet cloth on his trumpet 
bristled with beautful embroidery in gold thread and 
jewels. They earnestly entreated admittance, but the 
gate remained closed.” 

“Right, right! ’’cried Frau Heemskerk. “I don’t 
like the Prince’s commissioner, Van Bronkhorst. What 
does he care for us, if only the Queen doesn’t get angry 
and withdraw the subsidies? I’ve heard he wants to 
accommodate Chester and grant him admission.” 

“ He would like to do so,” added Frau Van Hout. 
“But your husband, Frau Maria, and mine — I was 
talking with him on the way here — will make every 
effort to prevent it. The two Seigneurs of Nordwyk 
are of their opinion, so perhaps the commissioner will 
be out-voted.” 

“ May God grant it !” cried the resolute voice of 
Wilhelm’s mother. “ By to-morrow or the day after, 
not even a cat will be allowed to leave the gates, and 


212 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


my husband says we must begin to save provisions a\ 
once.” 

“ Five hundred more consumers in the city, to lessen 
our children’s morsels; that would be fine business!” 
cried Frau de Haes, throwing herself back in her chair 
so violently, that it creaked, and beating her knees with 
her hands. 

“ And they are Englishmen, Frau Margret, English- 
men,” said the Receiver-General’s wife. “They don’t 
eat, they don’t consume, they devour. We supply 
our troops; but Herr von Nordwyk — I mean the 
younger one, who has been at the Queen’s court as the 
Prince’s ambassador, told my Wilhelm what a British 
glutton can gobble. They’ll clear off your beef like 
cheese, and our beer is dish-water compared with their 
black malt brew.” 

“All that might be borne,” replied Barbara, “if they 
were stout soldiers. We needn’t mind a hundred head 
of cattle more or less, and the glutton becomes tem- 
perate, when a niggard rules the house. But I wouldn’t 
take one of our Adrian’s grey rabbits for these run- 
aways.” 

“ It would be a pity,” said Frau de Haes. “ I shall 
go home now, and if I find my husband, he’ll learn 
what sensible people think of the Englishmen.” 

“ Gently, my friend, gently,” said Burgomaster Van 
Swieten’s wife, who had hitherto been playing quietly 
with the cat. “ Believe me, it will be just the same on 
the whole, whether we admit the auxiliaries or not, for 
before the gooseberries in our gardens are ripe, all resist- 
ance will be over.” 

Maria, who was passing cakes and hippocras, set 
her waiter on the table and asked : 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


213 


“ Do you wish that, Frau Magtelt ? ” 

“ I do,” replied the latter positively, “ and many sen- 
sible people wish it too. No resistance is possible against 
such superior force, and the sooner we appeal to the 
King’s mercy, the more surely it will be granted.” 

The other women listened to the bold speaker in 
silence, but Maria approached and answered indig- 
nantly : 

“ Whoever says that , can go to the Spaniards at 
once; whoever says that, desires the disgrace of the city 
and country; whoever says that — ” 

Frau Magtelt interrupted Maria with a forced laugh, 
saying : 

“ Do you want to school experienced women, 
Madam Early-Wise? Is it customary to attack a 
visitor ? ” 

“ Customary or not,” replied the other, “ I will 
never permit such words in our house, and if they 
crossed the lips of my own sister I would say to her : 
Go, you are my friend no longer ! ” 

Maria’s voice trembled, and she pointed with out- 
stretched arm towards the door. 

Frau Magtelt struggled for composure, but as she 
left the room found nothing to say, except : “ Don’t be 
troubled, don’t be troubled — you won’t see me again.” 

Barbara followed the offended woman, and while 
those who remained fixed their eyes in embarrassment 
upon their laps, Wilhelm’s mother exclaimed : 

“Well said, little woman, well said ! ” 

Herr Van Hout’s kind wife threw her arm around 
Maria, kissed her forehead, and whispered : 

“Turn away from the other women and dry your 
eyes.” 


THE BUkGOMASTER*S WIFE. 


214 


'i- 

CHAPTER XXL 

A story is told of a condemned man, whom his 
cruel executioner cast into a prison of ingenious struc- 
ture. Each day the walls of this cage grew narrower 
and narrower, each day they pressed nearer and nearer 
to the unfortunate prisoner, until in despair he died and 
the dungeon became his coffin. Even so, league by 
league, the iron barriers of the Spanish regiments drew 
nearer and nearer Leyden, and, if they succeeded in 
destroying the resistance of their victim, the latter was 
threatened with a still more cruel and pitiless end than 
that of the unhappy prisoner. The girdle Valdez, King 
Philip’s commander, and his skilful lieutenant, Don 
Ayala, had drawn around the city in less than two days, 
was already nearly closed, the fort of Valkenburg, 
strengthened with the utmost care, belonged to the 
enemy, and the danger had advanced more rapidly and 
with far more irresistible strength, than even the most 
timid citizens had feared. If Leyden fell, its houses 
would be delivered to fire and pillage, its men to death, 
its women to disgrace — this was guaranteed by the fate 
of other conquered cities and the Spanish nature. 

Who could imagine the guardian angel of the busy 
city, except under a sullen sky, with clouded brow and 
anxious eyes, and yet it looked as gay and bright at the 
White Gate as if a spring festival was drawing to a 
close with a brilliant exhibition. Wherever the walls, 
as far as Catherine’s Tower, afforded a foothold, they 


*niE burgomaster’s wife. 


2*5 

Were crowded with men, women, and children. The 
old masonry looked like the spectators’ seats in an 
arena, and the buzzing of the many-headed, curious 
crowd was heard for a long distance in the city. 

It is a kind dispensation of Providence, that enables 
men to enjoy a brief glimpse of sunshine amid terrible 
storms, and thus the journeymen and apprentices, women 
and children, forgot the impending danger and feasted 
their eyes on the beautifully-dressed English soldiers, 
who were looking up at them, nodding and laughing 
saucily to the young girls, though part of them, it is 
true, were awaiting with thoughtful faces the results of 
the negotiations going on within the walls. 

The doors of the White Gate now opened; Com- 
missioner Van Bronkhorst, Van der Werff, Van Hout 
and other leaders of the community accompanied the 
British colonel and his trumpeter to the bridge. The 
former seemed to be filled with passionate indignation 
and several times struck his hand on the hilt of his 
sword, the Leyden magistrates were talking to him, and 
at last took leave with low bows, which he answered 
only with a haughty wave of the hand. The citizens 
returned, the portals of the gate closed, the old lock 
creaked, the iron-shod beams fell back into their places, 
the chains of the drawbridge rattled audibly, and the 
assembled throng now knew that the Englishmen had 
been refused admittance to the city. 

Loud cheers, mingled with many an expression of 
displeasure, were heard. “ Long live Orange !” shouted 
the boys, among whom were Adrian and the son of the 
dead fencing-master Allertssohn; the women waved 
their handkerchiefs, and all eyes were fixed on the 
Britons. A loud flourish of trumpets was heard, the 


2l6 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


English mounted officers dashed towards the colonel 
and held a short council of war with him, interrupted by 
hasty words from several individuals, and soon after a 
signal was sounded. The soldiers hurriedly, formed in 
marching array, many of them shaking their fists at the 
city. Halberds and muskets, which had been stacked, 
were seized by their owners and, amid the beating of 
drums and blare of trumpets, order arose out of the con- 
fusion. Individuals fell into ranks, ranks into companies, 
gay flags were unfurled and flung to the evening breeze, 
and with loud hurrahs the troops marched along the 
Rhine towards the south-w T est, where the Spanish out- 
posts were stationed. 

The Leyden boys joined loudly in the Englishmen’s 
cheer. 

Even Andreas, the fencing-master’s son, had begun 
to shout with them; but when he saw a tall captain 
marching proudly before his company, his voice failed 
and, covering his eyes with his hands, he ran home to 
his mother. 

The other lads did not notice him, for the setting 
sun flashed so brightly on the coats of mail and helmets 
of the soldiers, the trumpets sounded so merrily, the 
officers’ steeds caracoled so proudly under their riders, 
the gay plumes and banners and the smoke of the glim- 
mering matches gained such beautiful hues in the roseate 
light of sunset, that eyes and ears seemed spellbound by 
the spectacle. But a fresh incident now T attracted the 
attention of great and small. 

Thirty-six Englishmen, among them several officers, 
lingered behind the others and approached the gate. 
Again the lock creaked and the chains rattled. The 
little band was admitted to the city and welcomed at 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 21 7 

the first houses of the northern end by Herr Van Bronk- 
horst and the burgomaster. 

Every one on the walls had expected, that a skirmish 
between the retreating Englishmen and Castilians would 
now take place before their eyes. But they were greatly 
mistaken. Before the first ranks reached the enemy, 
the matches for lighting the cannon flew through the 
air, the banners were lowered, and when darkness came 
and the curious spectators dispersed, they knew that the 
Englishmen had deserted the good cause and gone over 
to the Spaniards. 

The thirty-six men, who had been admitted through 
the gates, were the only ones who refused to be acces- 
sory to this treason. 

The task of providing quarters for Captain Crom- 
well and the other Englishmen and Netherlanders, who 
had remained faithful, was assigned to Van Hout. 
Burgomaster Van der Werff went home with Commis- 
sioner Van Bronkhorst. Many a low-voiced but violent 
word had been exchanged between them. The com- 
missioner protested that the Prince would be highly 
incensed at the refusal to admit the Englishmen, for 
with good reason he set great value on Queen Elizabeth’s 
favorable disposition to the cause of freedom, to which 
the burgomaster and his friends had rendered bad 
service that day. Van der Werff denied this, for every- 
thing depended upon holding Leyden. After the fall 
of this city, Delft, Rotterdam and Gouda would also be 
lost, and all farther efforts to battle for the liberty of 
Holland useless. Five hundred consumers would pre- 
maturely exhaust the already insufficient stock of 
provisions. Everything had been done to soften their 
refusal to admit the Englishmen, nay they had had free 
37 


218 the burgomaster's wife. 

choice to encamp beneath the protection of the walls 
under the cannon of the city. 

When the two men parted, neither had convinced 
the other, but each felt sure of his comrade’s loyalty. 

As Peter took leave, he said : 

“ Van Hout shall explain the reasons for our con- 
duct to the Prince, in a letter as clear and convincing as 
only he can make it, and his excellency will finally 
approve of it. Rely upon that.” 

“ We will wait,” replied the commissioner, “ but 
don’t forget that we shall soon be shut within these 
walls behind bolts and bars, like prisoners, and perhaps 
day after to-morrow no messenger will be able to get to 
him.” 

“ Van Hout is swift with his pen.” 

“ And let a proclamation be read aloud, early to- 
morrow morning, advising the women, old men and 
children, in short, all who will diminish the stock of 
provisions and add no strength to the defence, to leave 
the city. They can reach Delft without danger, for the 
roads leading to it are still open.” 

“ Very well,” replied Peter. “ It’s said that many 
girls and women have gone to-day in advance of the 
others.” 

“ That’s right,” cried the commissioner. “ We are 
driving in a fragile vessel on the high seas. If I had a 
daughter in the house, I know what I should do. Fare- 
well till we meet again,* Meister. How are matters at 
Alfen ? The firing is no longer heard.” 

Darkness has probably interrupted the battle.” 

“ We’ll hope for the best news to-morrow, and even 
if all the men outside succumb, we within the walls will 
not flinch or yield.” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


219 


“ We will hold out firmly to the end,” replied Peter 
resolutely. 

“ To the end, and, if God so wills it, a successful 
end.” 

“ Amen,” cried Peter, pressed the commissioner’s 
hand and pursued his way home. 

Barbara met him on the steps and wanted to call 
Maria, who was with Henrica ; but he forbade it and 
paced thoughtfully to and fro, his lips often quivering as 
if he were suffering great pain. When, after some time, 
he heard his wife’s voice in the dining-room, he con- 
trolled himself by a violent effort, went to the door, and 
slowly opened it. 

‘‘You are at home already, and I sitting quietly 
here spinning !” she exclaimed in surprise. 

“ Yes, child. Please come in here, I have something 
to say to you.” 

“ For Heaven’s sake! Peter, tell me what has hap- 
pened. How your voice sounds, and how pale you 
look !” 

“ I’m not ill, but matters are serious, terribly serious, 
Maria.” 

“ Then it is true that the enemy — ” 

“They gained great advantage to-day and yester- 
day, but I beg you, if you love me, don’t interrupt me 
now ; what I have to say is no easy thing, it is hard to 
force the lips to utter it. Where shall I begin ? How 
shall I speak, that you may not misunderstand me ? 
You know, child, I took you into my house from a 
warm nest. What we could offer was very little, and 
you had doubtless expected to find more. I know you 
have not been happy.” 

“ But it would be so easy for you to make me so.” 


220 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


“You are mistaken, Maria. In these troublous 
times but one thing claims my thoughts, and whatever 
diverts them from it is evil. But just now one thing 
paralyzes my courage and will — anxiety about your fate; 
for who knows what is impending over us, and there- 
fore it must be said, I must take my heart to the 
shambles and express a wish. — A wish ? Oh, 
merciful Heaven, is there no other word for what I 
mean ! ” 

“ Speak, Peter, speak, and do not torture me !” cried 
Maria, gazing anxiously into her husband’s face. It 
could be no small matter, that induced the clear-headed, 
resolute man to utter such confused language. 

The burgomaster summoned up his courage and 
began again : 

“ You are right, it is useless to keep back what must 
be said. We have determined at the town-hall to-day, 
to request the women and girls to leave the city. The 
road to Delft is still open ; day after to-morrow it may 
no longer be so, afterwards — who can predict what will 
happen afterwards? If no relief comes and the pro- 
visions are consumed, we shall be forced to open the 
gates to the enemy, and then, Maria, imagine what will 
happen ! The Rhine and the canals will grow crimson, 
for much blood will flow into them and they will mirror 
an unequalled conflagration. Woe betide the men, ten- 
fold woe betide the women, against whom the con- 
queror’s fury will then be directed. And you, you — 
the wife of the man who has induced thousands to 
desert King Philip, the wife of the exile, who directs 
the resistance within these walls.” 

At the last words Maria had opened her large eyes 
wider and wider, and now interrupted her husband with 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


221 


the question : “Do you wish to try how high my 
courage will rise ?” 

“ No, Maria. I know you will hold out loyally and 
would look death in the face as fearlessly as your 
sister did in Haarlem; but I, I cannot endure the 
thought of seeing you fall into the hands of our 
butchers. Fear for you, terrible fear, will destroy my 
vigorous strength in the decisive hours, so the words 
must be uttered — ” 

Maria had hitherto listened to her husband quietly ; 
she knew what he desired. Now she advanced nearer 
and interrupted him by exclaiming firmly, nay impe- 
riously : 

“No more, no more, do you hear! I will not 
endure another word !” 

“ Maria !” 

“ Silence ! It is my turn now. To escape fear, you 
will thrust your wife from the house ; fear, you say, 
would undermine your strength. But will longing 
strengthen it? If you love me, it will not fail to 
come — ” 

“ If I love you, Maria !” 

“ Well, well ! But you have forgotten to consider 
how / shall feel in exile, if I also love you. I am your 
wife. We vowed at the altar, that nothing save death 
should part us. Have you forgotten it ? Have your 
children become mine ? Have I taught them, rejoiced 
to call myself their mother ? Yes, or no ?” 

“ Yes, Maria, yes, yes, a hundred times yes !” 

“ And you have the heart to throw me into the arms 
of this wasting longing! You wish to prevent me from 
keeping the most sacred of vows ? You can bring 
yourself to tear me from the children ? You think me 


222 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


too shallow and feeble, to endure suffering and death for 
the sacred cause, which is mine as well as yours ! You 
are fond of calling me your child, but I can be strong, 
and whatever may come, will not weep. You are the 
husband and have the right to command, I am only the 
wife and shall obey. Shall I go ? Shall I stay ? I 
await your answer.” 

She had uttered the last words in a trembling voice, 
but the burgomaster exclaimed with deep emotion : 

“ Stay, stay, Maria ! Come, come, and forgive me ! ” 

Peter seized her hand, exclaiming again : 

“ Come, come ! ” 

But the young wife released herself, retreated a 
step and said beseechingly: 

“ Let me go, Peter, I cannot ; I need time to over- 
come this.” 

He let his arms fall and gazed mournfully into her 
face, but she turned away and silently left the room. 

Peter Van der Werff did not follow her, but went 
quietly into his study and strove to reflect upon many 
things, that concerned his office, but his thoughts con- 
stantly reverted to Maria. His love oppressed him as 
if it were a crime, and he seemed to ' himself like a 
courier, who gathers flowers by the way-side and in this 
idling squanders time and forgets the object of his mis- 
sion. His heart felt unspeakably heavy and sad, and it 
seemed almost like a deliverance when, just before mid- 
night, the bell in the Tower of Pancratius raised its evil- 
boding voice. In danger, he knew, he would feel and 
think of nothing except what duty required of him, so 
with renewed strength he took his hat from the hook 
and left the house with a steady step. 

In the street he met Junker Van Duivenvoorde, who 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


223 


summoned him to the Hohenort Gate, before which a 
body of Englishmen had again appeared ; a few brave 
soldiers who, in a fierce, bloody combat, had held Alfen 
and the Gouda sluice against the Spaniards until their 
powder was exhausted and necessity compelled them to 
yield or seek safety in flight. The burgomaster followed 
the officer and ordered the gates to be opened to the 
brave soldiers. They were twenty in number, among 
them the Netherland Captain Van der Laen, and a 
young German officer. Peter commanded, that they 
should have shelter for the night in the town-hall and 
the guard-house at the gate. The next morning suitable 
quarters would be found for them in the houses of the 
citizens. Janus Dousa invited the captain to lodge with 
him, the German went to Aquanus’s tavern. All were 
ordered to report to the burgomaster at noon the next 
day, to be assigned to quarters and enrolled among the 
volunteer troops. 

The ringing of the alarm-bell in the tower also dis- 
turbed the night’s rest of the ladies in the Van der Werff 
household. Barbara sought Maria, and neither returned 
to their rooms until they had learned the cause of the 
ringing and soothed Henrica. 

Maria could not sleep. Her husband’s purpose of 
separating from her during the impending danger, had 
stirred her whole soul, wounded her to the inmost 
depths of her heart. She felt humiliated, and, if not 
misunderstood, at least unappreciated by the man for 
whose sake she rejoiced, whenever she perceived a lofty 
aspiration or noble emotion in her own soul. What 
avail is personal loveliness to the beautiful wife of a blind 
man; of what avail to Maria was the rich treasure 
buried in her bosom, if her husband would not see and 


224 


THE BURGOMASTER S WIFE. 


bring it to the surface ! “ Show him, tell him how lofty 

are your feelings,” urged love ; but womanly pride ex- 
claimed : “ Do not force upon him what he disdains to 
seek.” 

So the hours passed, bringing her neither sleep, 
peace, nor the desire to forget the humiliation inflicted 
upon her. 

At last Peter entered the room, stepping lightly and 
cautiously, in order not to wake her. She pretended to 
be asleep, but with half-closed eyes could see him dis- 
tinctly. The lamp-light fell upon his face, and the lines 
she had formerly perceived looked like deep shadows 
between his eyes and mouth. They impressed upon his 
features the stamp of heavy, sorrowful anxiety, and 
reminded Maria of the “ too hard ” and “ if I can only 
bear it,” he had murmured in his sleep the night before. 
Then he approached her bed and stood there a long 
time; she no longer saw him, for she kept her eyes 
tightly closed, but the first loving glance, with which he 
gazed down upon her, had not escaped her notice. It 
continued to beam before her mental vision, and she 
thought she felt that he was watching and praying for 
her as if she were a child. 

Sleep had long since overpowered her husband, 
while Maria lay gazing at the glimmering dawn, as 
wakeful as if it were broad day. For the sake of his 
love she would forgive much, but she could not forget 
the humiliation she had experienced. “A toy,” she 
said to herself, “ a work of art which we enjoy, is placed 
in security when danger threatens the house; the axe 
and the bread, the sword and the talisman that protects 
us, in short whatever we cannot dispense with while we 
live, we do not release from our hands till death comes. 


THE BURGOMASTERS WIFE. 


225 


She was not necessary, indispensable to him. If she had 
obeyed his wish and left him, then — yes, then — ” 

Here the current of her thoughts was checked, for 
the first time she asked herself the question : “ Would 

he have really missed your helping hand, your cheering 
word ?” 

She turned restlessly, and her heart throbbed 
anxiously, as she told herself that she had done little to 
smooth his rugged pathway. The vague feeling, that 
he had not been entirely to blame, if she had not found 
perfect happiness by his side, alarmed her. Did not 
her former conduct justify him in expecting hindrance 
rather than support and help in impending days of 
severest peril ? 

Filled with deep longing to obtain a clear view of 
her own heart, she raised herself on her pillows and re- 
viewed her whole former life. 

Her mother had been a Catholic in her youth, and 
had often told her how free and light-hearted she had 
felt, when she confided everything that can trouble a 
woman’s heart to a silent third person, and received 
from the lips of God’s servant the assurance that she 
might now begin a new life, secure of forgiveness. “It 
is harder for us now,” her mother said before her first 
communion, “ for we of the Reformed religion are re- 
ferred to ourselves and our God, and must be wholly at 
peace with ourselves before we approach the Lord’s 
table. True, that is enough, for if we frankly and 
honestly confess to the judge within our own breasts all 
that troubles our consciences, whether in thought or 
deed, and sincerely repent, we shall be sure of forgive- 
ness for the sake of the Saviour’s wounds.” 

Maria now prepared for this silent confession, and 
J 


226 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


sternly and pitilessly examined her conduct. Yes, she 
had fixed her gaze far too steadily upon herself, asked 
much and given little. The fault was recognized, and 
now the amendment should begin. 

After this self-inspection, her heart grew lighter, and 
when she at last turned away from the morning light to 
seek sleep, she looked forward with pleasure to the 
affectionate greeting she meant to offer Peter in the 
morning; but she soon fell asleep and when she woke, 
her husband had long since left the house. 

As usual, she set Peter’s study in order before pro- 
ceeding to any other task, and while doing so, cast a 
friendly glance at the dead Eva’s picture. On the 
writing-table lay the bible, the only book not connected 
with his business affairs, that her husband ever read. 
Barbara sometimes drew comfort and support from the 
volume, but also used it as an oracle, for when undecided 
how to act she opened it and pointed with her finger to 
a certain passage. This usually had a definite meaning 
and she generally, though not always, acted as it 
directed. To-day she had been disobedient, for in re- 
sponse to her question whether she might venture to 
send a bag of all sorts of dainties to her son, a Beggar 
of the Sea, in spite of the Spaniards encircling the city, 
she had received the words of Jeremiah : “ Their tents 

and their flocks shall they take away : they shall take 
to themselves their curtains and all their vessels and 
their camels,” and yet the bag had been entrusted early 
that morning to a widow, who intended to make her 
escape to Delft with her young daughter, according to 
the request of the magistrates. The gift might perhaps 
reach Rotterdam ; a mother always hopes for a miracle 
in behalf of her child. 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. ' 227 

Before Maria restored the bible to its old place, she 
opened it at the thirteenth chapter of the first Epistle of 
Paul to the Corinthians, which speaks of love, and was 
specially dear to her. There were the words : “ Charity 
suffereth long and is kind, charity is not easily pro- 
voked and “ Charity beareth all things, believeth all 
things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.” 

To be kind and patient, to hope and endure all 
things, was the duty love imposed upon her. 

When she had closed the bible and was preparing 
to go to Henrica, Barbara ushered Janus Dousa into 
the room. The young nobleman to-day wore armor 
and gorget, and looked far more like a soldier than a 
scientist or poet. He had sought Peter in vain at the 
town-hall, and hoped to find him at home. One of the 
messengers sent to the Prince had returned from Dort- 
recht with a letter, which conferred on Dousa the office 
made vacant by Allertssohn’s death. He was to com- 
mand not only the city-guard, but all the armed force. 
He had accepted the appointment with cheerful alacrity, 
and requested Maria to inform her husband. 

“Accept my congratulations,” said the burgomas- 
ter’s wife. “ But what will now become of your motto: 
‘ Ante omnia Mnsae ?' ” 

“ I shall change the words a little and say : Omnia 
ante Musas A 

“ Do you understand that jargon, child ?” asked 
Barbara. 

“ A passport will be given the Muses,” replied Maria 
gaily. 

Janus was pleased with the ready repartee and ex- 
claimed: “How bright and happy you look! Faces 
free from care are rare birds in these days.” 


228 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


Maria blushed, for she did not know how to inter- 
pret the words of the nobleman, who understood how 
to reprove with subtle mockery, and answered naively : 
“ Don’t think me frivolous, Junker. I know the serious- 
ness of the times, but I have just finished a silent con- 
fession and discovered many bad traits in my character, 
but also the desire to replace them with more praise- 
worthy ones.” 

“There, there,” replied Janus. “I knew long ago 
that you had formed a friendship in the Delft school 
with my old sage. ‘ Know thyself,’ was the Greek’s prin- 
cipal lesson, and you wisely obey it. Every silent con- 
fession, every desire for inward purification, must begin 
with the purpose of knowing ourselves and, if in so 
doing we unexpectedly encounter things which tend to 
make our beloved selves uncomely, and have the 
courage to find them just as hideous in ourselves as in 
others — ” 

“ Abhorrence will come, and we shall have taken 
the first step towards improvement.” 

“ No, dear lady, we shall then stand on one of 
the higher steps. After hours of long, deep thought, 
Socrates perceived — do you know what?” 

“ That he knew nothing at all. I shall arrive at 
this perception more speedily.” 

“ And the Christian learns it at school,” said Bar- 
bara, to join in the conversation. “ All knowledge is 
botchwork.” 

“ And we are all sinners,” added Janus. “ That’s 
easily said, dear madam, and easily understood, when 
others are concerned. ‘ He is a sinner ’ is quickly 
uttered, but 1 1 am a sinner’ escapes the lips with more 
difficulty, and whoever does exclaim it with sorrow, in 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 229 

the stillness of his own quiet room, mingles the white 
feathers of angels’ wings with the black pinions of the 
devil. Pardon me! In these times everything thought 
and said is transformed into solemn earnest. Mars is 
here, and the cheerful Muses are silent. Remember 
me to your husband, and tell him, that Captain Allerts- 
sohn’s body has been brought in and to-morrow is 
appointed for the funeral. 

The nobleman took his leave, and Maria, after visit- 
ing her patient and finding her well and bright, sent 
Adrian and Bessie into the garden outside the city-wall 
to gather flowers and foliage, which she intended to 
help them weave into wreaths for the coffin of the brave 
soldier. She herself went to the captain’s widow. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

The burgomaster’s wife returned home just before 
dinner, and found a motley throng of bearded warriors 
assembled in front of the house, They were trying to 
make themselves intelligible in the English language to 
some of the constables, and when the latter respectfully 
saluted Maria, raised their hands to their morions also. 

She pleasantly returned the greeting and passed into 
the entry, where the full light of noon streamed in 
through the open door. 

Peter had assigned quarters to the English soldiers 
outside, and after a consultation with the new com- 
mandant, Jan Van der Does, gave them officers. They 
were probably waiting for their comrades, for when the 
young wife had ascended the first steps of the staircase 


230 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


and looked upward, she found the top of the narrow 
flight barred by the tall figure of a soldier. The latter 
had his back towards her and was showing Bessie 
his dark velvet cap, surrounded by rectangular teeth, 
above which floated a beautiful light-blue ostrich-plume. 
The child seemed to have formed a close friendship with 
the soldier, for, although the latter was refusing her 
something, the little girl laughed gaily. 

Maria paused irresolutely a moment; but when the 
child snatched the gay cap and put it on her own 
curls, she thought she must check her and exclaimed 
wamingly : “ Why, Bessie, that is no plaything for 
children.” 

The soldier turned, stood still a moment in aston- 
ishment, raised his hand to his forehead, and then, with 
a few hurried bounds, sprang down the stairs and 
rushed up to the burgomaster’s wife. Maria had started 
back in surprise ; but he gave her no time to think, for 
stretching out both hands he exclaimed in an eager, 
joyous tone, with sparkling eyes: “Maria! Jungfrau 
Maria! You here ! This is what I call a lucky day !” 

The young wife had instantly recognized the soldier 
and willingly laid her right hand in his, though not 
without a shade of embarrassment. 

The officer’s clear, blue eyes sought hers, but she 
fixed her gaze on the floor, saying : “ I am no longer 
what I was, the young girlhas become a housewife.” 

“A housewife!” he exclaimed. “How dignified 
that sounds ! And yet! Yet! You are still Jungfrau 
Maria! You haven’t changed a hair. That’s just the 
way you bent your head at the wedding in Delft, the 
way you raised your hands, lowered your eyes — you 
blushed too, just as prettily.” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


23I 


There was a rare melody in the voice which uttered 
these words with joyous, almost childlike freedom, 
which pleased Maria no less than the officer’s familiar 
manner annoyed her. With a hasty movement she 
raised her head, looked steadily into the young man’s 
handsome face and said with dignity : 

“ You see only the exterior, Junker von Dornburg; 
three years have made many changes within.” 

“Junker von Dornburg,” he repeated, shaking his 
waving locks. “ I was Junker Georg in Delft. Very 
different things have happened to us, dear lady, very 
different things. You see I have grown a tolerable, 
though not huge moustache, am stouter, and the sun has 
bronzed my pink and white boyish face — in short : my 
outer man has changed for the worse, but within I am 
just the same as I was three years ago.” 

Maria felt the blood again mounting into her cheeks, 
but she did not wish to blush and answered hastily : 

“Standing still is retrograding, so you have lost 
three beautiful years, Herr von Dornburg.” 

The officer looked at Maria in perplexity, and then 
said more gravely than before : 

“Your jest is more opportune, than you probably 
suppose; I had hoped to find you again in Delft, but 
powder was short in Alfen, so the Spaniard will prob- 
ably reach your native city sooner than we. Now a 
kind fate brings me to you here; but let me be honest — 
What I hope and desire stands clearly before my eyes, 
echoes in my soul, and when I thought of our meeting, 
I dreamed you would lay both hands in mine and, 
instead of greeting me with witty words, ask the old 
companion of happy hours, your brother Leonhard’s 
best friend : ‘ Do you still remember our dead ?’ And 


232 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


when I had told you : ‘ Yes, yes, yes, I have never for- 
gotten him,’ then I thought the mild lustre of your eyes 
— Oh, oh, how I thank you ! The dear orbs are floating 
in a mist of tears. You are not so wholly changed as 
you supposed, Frau Maria, and if I loyally remember 
the past, will you blame me for it ?” 

“ Certainly not,” she answered cordially. “ And 
now that you speak to me so, I will with pleasure again 
call you Junker Georg, and as Leonhard’s friend and 
mine, invite you to our house.” 

“ That will be delightful,” he cried cordially. “ I 
have so much to ask you and, as for myself — alas, I 
wish I had less to tell.” 

“ Have you seen my husband ?” asked Maria. 

“ I know nobody in Leyden,” he replied, “ except 
my learned, hospitable host, and the doge of this minia- 
ture Venice, so rich in water and bridges.” 

Georg pointed up the stair-case. Maria blushed 
again as she said : 

“ Burgomaster Van der Werflfis my husband.” 

The nobleman was silent for a short time, then he 
said quickly : 

“ He received me kindly. And the pretty elf up 
yonder ? ” 

“ His child by his first marriage, but now mine also. 
How do you happen to call her the elf?” 

“ Because she looks as if she had been born among 
white flowers in the moonlight, and because the after- 
glow of the sunrise, from which the elves flee, crimsoned 
her cheeks when I caught her.” 

“ She has already received the name once,” said 
Maria. “ May 1 take you to my husband ?” 

“ Not now, Frau Van der Werfif, for I must attend 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


233 


to my men outside, but to-morrow, if you will allow 
me.” 

Maria found the dishes smoking on the dining-table. 
Her family had waited for her, and, heated by the rapid 
walk at noon, excited by her unexpected meeting with 
the young German, she opened the door of the study 
and called to her husband : 

“ Excuse me! I was detained. It is very late.” 

“ We were very willing to wait,” he answered kindly, 
approaching her. Then all she had resolved to do 
returned to her memory and, for the first time since her 
marriage, she raised her husband’s hand to her lips. 
He smilingly withdrew it, kissed her on the forehead, 
and said : 

“ It is delightful to have you here.” 

“ Isn’t it?” she asked, gently shaking her finger at 
him. 

“ But we are all here now, and dinner is waiting.” 

“ Come then,” she answered gaily. “ Do you know 
whom I met on the stairs ? ” 

“ English soldiers.” 

“ Of course, but among them Junker von Dornburg.” 

“ He called on me. A handsome fellow, whose 
gayety is very attractive, a German from the evangelical 
countries.” 

“ Leonhard’s best friend. Don’t you know ? Surely 
I’ve told you about him. Our guest at Jacoba’s 
wedding.” 

“ Oh ! yes. Junker Georg. He tamed the chestnut 
horse for the Prince’s equerry.” 

“ That was a daring act,” said Maria, drawing a long 
breath. 

“ The chestnut is still an excellent horse,” replied 
38 


234 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


Peter. “ Leonhard thought the Junker, with his gifts 
and talents, would lift the world out of its grooves ; I 
remember it well, and now the poor fellow must remain 
quietly here and be fed by us. How did he happen to 
join the Englishmen and take part in the war ?” 

“ I don’t know; he only told me that he had had 
many experiences.” 

“ I can easily believe it. He is living at the tavern ; 
but perhaps we can find a room for him in the side 
wing, looking out upon the court-yard.” 

“ No, Peter,” cried the young wife eagerly. “There 
is no room in order there.” 

“ That can be arranged later. At any rate we’ll 
invite him to dinner to-morrow, he may have something 
to tell us. There is good marrow in the young man. 
He begged me not to let him remain idle, but make him 
of use in the service. Jan Van der Does has already 
put him in the right place, the new commandant looks 
into people’s hearts.” 

Barbara mingled in the conversation, Peter, though 
it was a week-day, ordered a jug of wine to be brought 
instead of the beer, and an event that had not occurred 
for weeks happened : the master of the house sat at 
least fifteen minutes with his family after the food had 
been removed, and told them of the rapid advance of 
the Spaniards, the sad fate of the fugitive Englishmen, 
who had been disarmed and led away in sections, the 
brave defence the Britons, to whose corps Georg be- 
longed, had made at Alfen, and of another hot combat 
in which Don Gaytan, the right-hand and best officer of 
Valdez, was said to have fallen. Messengers still went 
and came on the roads leading to Delft, but to-morrow 
these also would probably be blocked by the enemy. 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


235 


He always addressed everything he said to Maria, 
unless Barbara expressly questioned him, and when he 
at last rose from the table, ordered a good roast to be 
prepared the next day for the guest he intended to 
invite. Scarcely had the door of his room closed be- 
hind him, when little Bessie ran up to Maria, threw her 
arms around her and asked : 

“ Mother, isn’t Junker Georg the tall captain with 
the blue feather, who ran down-stairs so fast to meet 
you?” 

“ Yes, child.” 

“ And he’s coming to dinner to-morrow ! He’s 
coming, Adrian.” 

The child clapped her hands in delight and then ran 
to Barbara to exclaim once more : 

“ Aunt Barbel, did you hear ? He’s coming ! ” 

“ With the blue feather,” replied the widow. 

“ And he has curls, curls as long as Assendelft’s 
little Clara. May I go with you to see Cousin Henrica? ” 

“Afterwards, perhaps,” replied Maria. “Go now, 
children, get the flowers and separate them carefully 
from the leaves. Trautchen will bring some hoops and 
strings, and then we’ll bind the wreaths.” 

Junker Georg’s remark, that this was a lucky day, 
seemed to be verified; for the young wife found Henrica 
bright and free from pain. With the doctor’s per- 
mission, she had walked up and down her room several 
times, sat a longer time at the open window, relished 
her chicken, and when Maria entered, was seated in the 
softly-cushioned arm-chair, rejoicing in the conscious- 
ness of increasing strength. 

Maria was delighted at her improved appearance, 
and told her how well she looked that day. 


236 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


“ I can return the compliment,” replied Henrica. 
“ You look very happy. What has happened to you ? ” 

“ To me ? Oh ! my husband was more cheerful 
than usual, and there was a great deal to tell at dinner. 
I’ve only come to enquire for your health. I will see 
you later. Now I must go with the children to a sor- 
rowful task.” 

“ With the children ? What have the little elf and 
Signor Salvatore to do with sorrow ? ” 

“ Captain Allertssohn will be buried to-morrow, and 
we are going to make some wreaths for the coffin.” 

“ Make wreaths !” cried Henrica, “ I can teach you 
that ! There, Trautchen, take the plate and call the 
little ones.” 

The servant went away, but Maria said anxiously : 

“You will exert yourself too much again, Henrica.” 

“ I ? I shall be singing again to-morrow. My 
preserver’s potion does wonders, I assure you. Have 
you flowers and oak-leaves enough ?” 

“ I should think so.” 

At the last words the door opened and Bessie 
cautiously entered the room, walking on tiptoe as she 
had been told, went up to Henrica, received a kiss from 
her, and then asked eagerly : 

“Cousin Henrica, do you know? Junker Georg, 
with the blue feather, is coming again to-morrow and 
will dine with us.” 

“Junker Georg ?” asked the young lady. 

Maria interrupted the child’s reply, and answered in 
an embarrassed tone: 

“ Herr von Dornburg, an officer who came to the 
city with the Englishmen, of whom I spoke to you — a 
German^an old acquaintance. Go and arrange the 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


237 


flowers with Adrian, Bessie, then I’ll come and help 
you.” 

“ Here, with Cousin Henrica,” pleaded the child. 

“ Yes, little elf, here; and we’ll both make the 
loveliest wreath you ever saw.” 

The child ran out, and this time, in her delight, 
forgot to shut the door gently. 

The young wife gazed out of the window. Henrica 
watched her silently for a time and then exclaimed : 

“ One word, Frau Maria. What is going on in the 
court-yard ? Nothing ? And what has become of the 
happy light in your eyes ? Your house isn’t swarming 
with guests; why did you wait for Bessie to tell me 
about Junker Georg, the German, the old acquaint- 
ance ?” 

“ Let that subject drop, Henrica.” 

“ No, no ! Do you know what I think ? The 
storm of war has blown to your house the young mad- 
cap, with whom you spent such happy hours at your 
sister’s wedding. Am I right or wrong ? You needn’t 
blush so deeply.” 

“ It is he,” replied Maria gravely. “ But if you love 
me, forget what I told you about him, or deny yourself 
the idle amusement of alluding to it, for if you should 
still do so, it would offend me.” 

“ Why should I ! You are the wife of another.” 

“ Of another whom I honor and love, who trusts 
me and himself invited the J unker to his house. I have 
liked the young man, admired his talents, been anxious 
when he trifled with his life as if it were a paltry leaf, 
which is flung into the river.” 

“ And now that you have seen him again, Maria ?” 


238 


THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE. 


“ Now I know, what my duty is. 'Doyou see, that 
my peace here is not disturbed by idle gossip.” 

“ Certainly not, Maria ; yet I am still curious about 
this Chevalier Georg and his singing. Unfortunately 
we shan’t be long together. I want to go home.” 

“ The doctor will not allow you to travel yet.” 

“No matter. I shall go as soon as I feel well 
enough. My father is refused admittance, but your 
husband can do much, and I must speak with him.” 

“ Will you receive him to-morrow ?” 

“ The sooner the better, for he is your husband 
and, I repeat, the ground is burning under my feet.” 

“ Oh !” exclaimed Maria. 

“ That sounds very sad,” cried Henrica. “ Do you 
want to hear, that I shall find it hard to leave you ? I 
shouldn’t go yet; but my sister Anna, she is now a 
widow — Thank God, I should like to say, “but she 
is suffering want and utterly deserted. I must speak to 
my father about her, and go forth from the quiet haven 
into the storm once more.” 

“ My husband will come to you,” said Maria. 

“ That’s right, that’s right ! Come in, children ! 
Put the flowers on the table yonder. You, little elf, sit 
down on the stool and you, Salvatore, shall give me the 
flowers. What does this mean ? I really believe the 
scamp has been putting perfumed oil on his curly head. 
In honor of me, Salvatore ? Thank you ! — We shall 
need the hoops later. First we’ll make bouquets, and 
then bind them with the leaves to the wood. Sing me 
a song while we are working, Maria. The first one ! I 
can bear it to-day.” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


2 39 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Half Leyden had followed the brave captain’s coffin, 
and among the other soldiers, who rendered the last 
honors to the departed, was Georg von Dornburg. 
After the funeral, the musician Wilhelm led the son of 
the kind comrade, whom so many mourned, to his house. 
Van der Werff found many things to be done after the 
burial, but reserved the noon hour ; for he expected the 
German to dine. 

The burgomaster, as usual, sat at the head of the 
table; the Junker had taken his place between him and 
Maria, opposite to Barbara and the children. 

The widow never wearied of gazing at the young 
man’s fresh, bright face, for although her son could 
not compare with him in beauty, there was an honest 
expression in the Junker’s eyes, which reminded her of 
her Wilhelm. . 

Many a question and answer had already been ex- 
changed between those assembled round the board, 
many a pleasant memory recalled, when Peter, after the 
dishes had been removed and a new jug with better 
wine placed on the table, filled the young nobleman’s 
glass again, and raised his own. 

“ Let us drink this bumper,” he cried, gazing at 
Georg with sincere pleasure in his eyes, “ let us drink to 
the victory of the good cause, for which you too volun- 
tarily draw your sword. Thanks for the vigorous 
pledge. Drinking is also an art, and the Germans are 
masters of it.” 


240 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


“ We learn it in. various places, and not worst at the 
University of Jena.” 

“ All honor to the doctors and professors, who bring 
their pupils up to the standard of my dead brother-in- 
law, and judging from this sample drink, you also.” 

“ Leonhard was my teacher in the ars bibe?idi . How 
long ago it is ! ” 

“ Youth is not usually content,” replied Peter, “ but 
when the point in question concerns years, readily calls 
‘ much,’ what seems to older people ‘little.’ True, many 
experiences may have been crowded into the last few 
years of your life. I can still spare an hour, and as we 
are all sitting so cosily together here, you can tell us, 
unless you wish to keep silence on the subject, how you 
chanced to leave your distant home for Holland, and 
your German and Latin books to enlist under the 
English standard.” 

“ Yes,” added Maria, without any trace of embar- 
rassment. “ You still owe me the story. Give thanks, 
children, and then go.” 

Adrian gazed beseechingly first at his mother and 
then at his father, and as neither forbade him to stay, 
moved his chair close to his sister, and both leaned their 
heads together and listened with wide open eyes, while 
the Junker first quietly, then with increasing vivacity, 
related the following story : 

“You know that I am a native of Thuringia, a 
mountainous country in the heart of Germany. Our 
castle is situated in a pleasant valley, through which a 
clear river flows in countless windings. Wooded moun- 
tains, not so high as the giants in Switzerland, yet by no 
means contemptible, border the narrow boundaries of the 
valley. At their feet lie fields and meadows, at a greater 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


24I 


height rise pine forests, which, like the huntsman, wear 
green robes at all seasons of the year. In winter, it is 
true, the snow cover them with a glimmering white 
sheet. When spring comes, the pines put forth new 
shoots, as fresh and full of sap as the budding foliage of 
your oaks and beeches, and in the meadows by the river 
it begins to snow in the warm breezes, for then one fruit- 
tree blooms beside another, and when the wind rises, the 
delicate white petals flutter through the air and fall 
among the bright blossoms in the grass, and on the clear 
surface of the river. There are also numerous barren 
cliffs on the higher portions of the mountains, and where 
they towered in the most rugged, inaccessible ridges, our 
ancestors built their fastnesses, to secure themselves from 
the attacks of their enemies. Our castle stands on a 
mountain-ridge in the midst of the valley of the Saal'e. 
There I was born, there I sported through the years of 
my boyhood, learned to read and guide the pen. There 
was plenty of hunting in the forests, we had spirited 
horses in the stable, and, wild lad that I was, I rarely 
went voluntarily into the school-room, the grey-haired 
teacher, Lorenz, had to catch me, if he wanted to get 
possession of me. My sisters and Hans, our youngest 
child, the boy was only three years younger than I, kept 
quiet — I had an older brother too, yet did not have him. 
When his beard was first beginning to grow, he was 
given by our gracious Duke to Chevalier von Brand as 
his esquire, and sent to Spain, to buy Andalusian horses. 
John Frederick’s father had learned their value in 
Madrid after the battle of Miihlburg. Louis was a 
merry fellow when he went away, and knew how to 
tame the wildest stallion. It was hard for our parents 
to believe him dead, but years elapsed, and as neither 


242 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


he nor Chevalier von Brand appeared, we were obliged 
to give him up for lost. My mother alone could not do 
this, and constantly expected his return. My father 
called me the future heir and lord of the castle. When 
I had passed beyond boyhood and understood Cicero 
tolerably well, I was sent to the University of Jena to 
study law, as my uncle, the chancellor, wished me to be- 
come a counsellor of state. 

“ Oh Jena, beloved Jena ! There are blissful days 
in May and June, when only light clouds float in the 
sky, and all the leaves and flowers are so fresh and 
green, that one would think — they probably think so 
themselves — that they could never fade and wither; 
such days in human existence are the period of joyous 
German student life. You can believe it. Leonhard 
has told you enough of Jena. He understood how to 
unite work and pleasure ; I, on the contrary, learned little 
on the wooden benches, for I rarely occupied them, and 
the dust of books certainly didn’t spoil my lungs. But 
I read Ariosto again and again, devoted myself to 
singing, and when a storm of feeling seethed within my 
breast, composed many songs for my own pleasure. 
We learned to wield the sword too in Jena, and I would 
gladly have crossed blades with the sturdy fencing- 
master Allertssohn, of whom you have just told me. 
Leonhard was older than I, and when he graduated 
with honor, I was still very weak in the pandects. But 
we were always one in heart and soul, so I went to 
Holland with him to attend his wedding. Ah, those 
were days! The theologians in Jena have actively dis- 
puted about the part of the earth, in which the little 
garden of Paradise should be sought. I considered 
them all fools, and thought : ‘ There is only one Eden, 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


243 


and that lies in Holland, and the fairest roses the dew 
waked on the first sunny morning, bloom in Delft ! ’ ” 

At these words Georg shook back his waving 
locks and hesitated in great embarrassment, but as no 
one interrupted him and he saw Barbara’s eager face 
and the children’s glowing cheeks, quietly continued : 

“ So I came home, and was to learn for the first 
time, that in life also beautiful sunny days often end with 
storms. I found my father ill, and a few days after my 
return he closed his eyes in death. I had never seen 
any human being die, and the first, the very first, was 
he, my father.” 

Georg paused, and deeply moved, passed his hand 
over his eyes. 

“Your father!” cried Barbara, in a tone of cordial 
sympathy, breaking the silence. “ If we can judge the 
tree by the apple, he was surely a splendid man.” 

The Junker again raised his head, exclaiming with 
sparkling eyes : 

“ Unite every good and noble quality, and embody 
them in the form of a tall, handsome man, then you will 
have the image of my father; — and I might tell you ol 
my mother — ” 

“ Is she still alive ? ” asked Peter. 

“God grant it!” exclaimed the young man. “I 
have heard nothing from my family for two months. 
That is hard. Pleasures smile along every path, and I 
like my profession of soldier, but it often grieves me 
sorely to hear so little from home. Oh ! if one were 
only a bird, a sunbeam, or a shooting-star, one might, if 
only for the twinkling of an eye, learn how matters go 
at home and fill the soul with fresh gratitude, or, if it 
must be — but I will not think of that. In the valley of 


244 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


the Saale, the trees are blossoming and a thousand 
flowers deck all the meadows, just as they do here, and 
did there two years ago, when I left home for the second 
time. 

“ After my father’s death I was the heir, but neither 
hunting nor riding to court, neither singing nor the 
clinking of beakers could please me. I went about 
like a sleep-walker, and it seemed as if I had no 
right to live without my father. Then — it is now 
just two years ago — a messenger brought from Weimar 
a letter which had come from Italy with several others, 
addressed to our most gracious sovereign ; it contained 
the news that our lost brother was still alive, lying 
sick and wretched in the hospital at Bergamo. A 
kind nun had written for him, and we now learned that 
on the journey from Valencia to Livorno Louis had 
been captured by corsairs and dragged to Tunis. How 
much suffering he endured there, with what danger he 
at last succeeded in obtaining his liberty, you shall learn 
later. He escaped to Italy on a Genoese galley. His 
feet carried him as far as Bergamo, but he could go no 
farther, and now lay ill, perhaps dying, among sympa- 
thizing strangers. I set out at once and did not spare 
horseflesh on the way to Bergamo, but though there 
were many strange and beautiful things to be seen on 
my way, they afforded me little pleasure, the thought of 
Louis, so dangerously ill, saddened my joyous spirits. 
Every running brook urged me to hasten, and the lofty 
mountains seemed like jealous barriers. When once 
beyond St. Gotthard I felt less anxious, and as I 
rode down from Bellinzona to Lake Lugano, and the 
sparkling surface of the water beyond the city smiled at 
me like a blue eye, forgot my grief for a time, waved 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


2 45 


my hat, and sung a song. In Bergamo I found my 
brother, alive, but enfeebled in mind and body, weak, 
and without any desire to take up the burden of life 
again. He had been in good hands, and after a few 
weeks we were able to travel homeward — this time I 
went through beautiful Tyrol. Louis’s strength daily 
increased, but the wings of his soul had been paralyzed 
by suffering. Alas, for long years he had dug and car- 
ried heavy loads, with chains on his feet, beneath a 
broiling sun. Chevalier von Brand could not long 
endure this hard fate, but Louis, while in Tunis, forgot 
both how to laugh and weep, and which of the two can 
be most easily spared ? 

“ Even when he saw my mother again, he could not 
shed a tear, yet his whole body — and surely his heart 
also — trembled with emotion. Now he lives quietly at 
the castle. In the prime of manhood he is an old man, 
but he is beginning to accommodate himself to life, only 
he can’t bear the sight of a strange face. I had a hard 
battle with him, for as the eldest son, the castle and 
estate, according to the law, belong to him, but he 
wanted to resign his rights and put me in his place. 
Even when he had brought my mother over to his side, 
and my uncle and brothers and sisters tried to persuade 
me to yield to his wish, I remained resolute. I would 
not touch what did not belong to me, and our youngest 
boy, Wolfgang, has grown up, and can fill my place 
wherever it is necessary. When the entreaties and per- 
suasions became too strong for me, I saddled my horse 
and went away again. It was hard for my mother to 
let me go, but I had tasted the delight of travelling, and 
rode off as if to a wedding. If I must be perfectly 
frank, I’ll confess that I resigned castle and estates like 


246 THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 

a troublesome restraint. Free as the wind and clouds, 
I followed the same road over which I had ridden with 
Leonhard, for in your country a war after my own heart 
was going on, and my future fortune was to be based 
upon my sword. In Cologne I enlisted under the 
banner of Louis of Nassau, and fought with him at 
Mook Heath till every one retreated. My horse had 
fallen, my doublet was torn, there was little left save 
good spirits and the hope of better days. These were 
soon found, for Captain Gensfort asked me to join the 
English troops. I became his ensign, and at Alfen held 
out beside him till the last grain of powder was ex- 
hausted. What happened there, you know.” 

“ And Captain Van der Laen told us,” said Peter, 
“ that he owes his life to you. You fought like a lion.” 

“ It was wild work enough at the fortifications, yet 
neither I nor my horse had a hair ruffled, and this time 
I even saved my knapsack and a full purse. Fate, like 
mothers, loves troublesome children best, and therefore 
led me to you and your family, Herr Burgomaster.” 

“ And I beg you to consider yourself one of them,” 
replied Peter. “We have two pleasant rooms looking 
out upon the court-yard; they shall be put in order for 
you, if you would like to occupy them.” 

“With pleasure,” replied the Junker, and Peter, 
offering him his hand, said : 

“ The duties of my office call me away, but you can 
tell the ladies what you need, and when you mean to 
move in. The sooner, the better we shall be pleased. 
Shall we not, Maria ?” 

“ You will be welcome, Junker Georg. Now I must 
look after the invalid we are nursing here. Barbara will 
ascertain your wishes.” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


24 ? 

The young wife took her husband’s hand and left 
the room with him. 

The widow was left alone with the young nobleman 
and tried to learn everything he desired. Then she fol- 
lowed her sister-in-law, and finding her in Henrica’s 
room, clapped her hands, exclaiming: 

“That is a man! Fraulein, I assure you that, 
though I’m an old woman, I never met so fine a young 
fellow in all my life. So much heart, and so handsome 
too ! ‘To whom fortune gives once, it gives by bushels, 
and unto him that hath, shall be given !’ Those are 
precious words !” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Peter had promised Henrica, to request the council 
to give her permission to leave the city. 

It was hard for her to part from the burgomaster’s 
household. Maria’s frank nature exerted a beneficial 
influence; it seemed as if her respect for her own sex 
increased in her society. The day before she had heard 
her sing. The young wife’s voice was like her character. 
Every note flawless and clear as a bell, and Henrica 
grieved that she should be forbidden to mingle her own 
voice with her hostess’s. She was very sorry to leave 
the children too. Yet she was obliged to go, on Anna’s 
account, for her father could not be persuaded by letters 
to do anything. Had she appealed to him in writing to 
forgive his rejected child, he would hardly have read the 
epistle to the end. Something might more easily be won 
from him through words, by taking advantage of a favor- 


248 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


able moment. She must have speech with him, yet she 
dreaded the life in his castle, especially as she was forced 
to acknowledge, that she too was by no means necessary 
to her father. To secure the inheritance, he had sent 
her to a terrible existence with her aunt; while she lay 
dangerously ill, he had gone to a tournament, and the 
letter received from him the day before, contained 
nothing but the information that he was refused admit- 
tance to the city, and a summons for her to go to Jun- 
ker de Heuter’s house at the Hague. Enclosed was a 
pass from Valdez, enjoining all King Philip’s soldiers to 
provide for her safety. 

The burgomaster had intended to have her conveyed 
in a litter, accompanied by a flag of truce, as far as the 
Spanish lines, and the doctor no longer opposed her 
wish to travel. She hoped to leave that day. 

Lost in thought, she stationed herself in the bay- 
window and gazed out into the court -yard. Several 
windows in the building on the eastern side stood open. 
Trautchen must have risen early, for she came out of 
the rooms arranged for Georg’s occupation, followed by 
a young assistant carrying various scrubbing utensils. 
Next Jan appeared with a large arm-chair on his head. 
Bessie ran after the Frieselander, calling: 

“ Aunt Barbel’s grandfather’s chair ; where will she 
take her afternoon nap ?” 

Henrica had heard the words, and thought first of 
good old “ Babetta,” who could also feel tenderly, then 
of Maria and the man who was to lodge in the rooms 
opposite. Were there not some loose threads still re- 
maining of the old tie, that had united the burgomaster’s 
wife to the handsome nobleman ? A feeling of dread 
overpowered her. Poor Meister Peter, poor Maria ! 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 249 

Was it right to abandon the young wife, who had held 
out a saving hand in her distress ? Yet how much 
nearer was her own sister than this stranger ! Each day 
that she allowed herself to linger in this peaceful asylum, 
seemed like a theft from Anna — since she had read in a 
letter from her to her husband, the only one the dead 
man’s pouch contained, that she was ill and sunk in 
poverty with her child. 

Help was needed here, and no one save herself could 
offer it. 

With aid from Barbara and Maria, she packed her 
clothes. At noon everything was ready for her de- 
parture, and she would not be withheld from eating in 
the dining-room with the family. Peter was prevented 
from coming to dinner, Henrica took his seat and, under 
the mask of loud, forced mirth, concealed the grief and 
anxieties that filled her heart. At twilight Maria and 
the children followed her into her room, and she now 
had the harp brought and sang. At first her voice failed 
to reach many a note, but as the snow falling from the 
mountain peaks to the plains at first slides slowly, then 
rapidly increases in bulk and power, her tones gradu- 
ally gained fulness and irresistible might and, when at 
last she rested the harp against the wall and walked to 
the chair exhausted, Maria clasped her hand and said 
with deep emotion : 

“ Stay with us, Henrica.” 

“I ought not,” replied the girl. “You are enough 
for each other. Shall I take you with me, children ?” 

Adrian lowered his eyes in embarrassment, but 
Bessie jumped into her lap, exclaiming . 

“ Where are you going ? Stay with us. 

Just at that moment some one knocked at the door, 
39 


250 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


and Peter entered. It was evident that lie brought no 
good tidings. His request had been refused. The 
council had almost unanimously voted an assent to Van 
Bronkhorst’s proposition, that the young lady, as a 
relation of prominent friends of Spain among the Nether- 
land nobility, should be kept in the city. Peter’s repre- 
sentations were unheeded ; he now frankly told Henrica 
what a conflict he had had, and entreated her to have 
patience and be content to remain in his house as a 
welcome guest. 

The young girl interrupted him with many a pas- 
sionate exclamation of indignation, and when she grew 
calmer, cried : 

“ Oh, you men, you men ! I would gladly stay 
with you, but you know from what this base deed of 
violence detains me. And then : to be a prisoner, to 
live weeks, months, without mass and without confession. 
Yet first and last — merciful Heavens, what will become 
of my unfortunate sister ?” 

Maria gazed beseechingly at Peter, and the latter 
said : 

“ If you desire the consolations of your religion, I 
will send Father Damianus to you, and you can hear 
mass with the Grey Sisters, who live beside us, as often 
as you desire. We are not fighting against your religion, 
but for the free exercise of every faith, and the whole 
city stands open to you. My wife will help you bear 
your anxiety about your sister far better than I could 
do, but let me say this : wherever and however I can 
help you, it shall be done, and not merely in words.” 

So saying, he held out his hand to Henrica. She 
gave him hers, exclaiming : 

“ I have cause to thank you, I know, but please 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


* 5 * 

leave me now and give me time to think until to- 
morrow.” 

“ Is there no way of changing the decision of the 
council ? ” Maria asked her husband. 

“ No, certainly not.” 

“ Well, then,” said the young wife earnestly, “ you 
must remain our guest. Anxiety for your sister does 
not cloud your pleasure alone, but saddens me too. 
Let us first of all provide for her. How are the roads 
to Delft ?” 

“ They are cut, and no one will be able to pass after 
to-morrow or the day after.” 

“ Then calm yourself, Henrica, and let us consider 
what is to be done.” 

The questions and counter-questions began, and 
Henrica gazed in astonishment at the delicate young 
wife, for with unerring resolution and keenness, she held 
the first voice in the consultation. The surest means of 
gaining information was to seek that very day a reliable 
messenger, by whom to send Anna d’ Avila money, 
and if possible bring her to Holland. The burgomaster 
declared himself ready to advance from his own pro- 
perty, a portion of the legacy bequeathed Henrica’s 
sister by Fraulein Van Hoogstraten, and accepted his 
guest’s thanks without constraint. 

“ But whom could they send ? ” 

Henrica thought of Wilhelm ; he was her sister’s 
friend. 

“ But he is in the military service,” replied the 
burgomaster. “ I know him. He will not desert the 
city in these times of trouble, not even for his mother.” 

“ But I know the right messenger,” said Maria. 
“We’ll send Junker Georg.” 


252 tttE Burgomaster's wife. 

“ That’s a good suggestion,” said Peter. “ We shall 
find him in his lodgings. I must go to Van Hout, who 
lives close by, and will send the German to you. But 
my time is limited, and with such gentlemen, fair women 
can accomplish more than bearded men. Farewell, 
dear Fraulein, once more — we rejoice to have you for 
our guest.” 

When the burgomaster had left the room, Henrica 
said : 

“ How quickly, and how differently from what I ex- 
pected, all this has happened. I love you. I am under 
obligations to you, but to be imprisoned, imprisoned. — 
The walls will press upon me, the ceiling will seem like 
a weight. I don’t know whether I ought to rejoice or 
despair. You have great influence with the Junker. 
Tell him about Anna, touch his heart, and if he would 
go, it would really be best for us both.” 

“ You mean for you and your sister,” replied Maria 
with a repellent gesture of the hand. “ There is the 
lamp. When the Junker comes, we shall see each other 
again.” 

Maria went to her room and threw herself on the 
couch, but soon rose and paced restlessly to and fro. 
Then stretching out her clasped hands, she exclaimed : 

“ Oh, if he would only go, if he would only go ! 
Merciful God ! Kind, gracious Father in Heaven, grant 
him every happiness, every blessing, but save my peace 
of mind ; let him go, and lead him far, far away from 
here.” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE 


2 53 


CHAPTER XXV. 

The tavern where Georg von Dornburg lodged stood 
on the “broad street,” and was a fine building with 
a large court-yard, in which were numerous vehicles. 
On the left of the entrance was a large open room 
entered through a lofty archway. Here the drivers and 
other folk sat over their beer and wine, suffering the 
innkeeper’s hens to fly on the benches and even some- 
times on the table, here vegetables were cleaned, boiled 
and fried, here the stout landlady was frequently obliged 
to call her sturdy maid and men servants to her aid, when 
her guests came to actual fighting, or some one drank 
more than was good for him. Here the new custom of 
tobacco-smoking was practised, though only by a few 
sailors who had served on Spanish ships — but Frau Van 
Aken could not endure the acrid smoke and opened the 
windows, which were filled with blooming pinks, slender 
stalks of balsam, and cages containing bright-plumaged 
goldfinches. On the side opposite to the entrance were 
two closed rooms. Above the door of one, neatly 
carved in wood, were the lines from Horace : 

“ Ille terrarum mihi praeter omnes. 

Angulus ridet.” * 

Only a few chosen guests found admittance into this 
long, narrow apartment. It was completely wainscoted 
with wood, and from the centre of the richly-carved 

* Of all the corners of the world, 

There is none that so charms me. 


254 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


ceiling a strange picture gleamed in brilliant hues. This 
represented the landlord. The worthy man with the 
smooth face, firmly-closed lips, and long nose, which 
offered an excellent straight line to its owner’s burin, 
sat on a throne in the costume of a Roman general, 
while Vulcan and Bacchus, Minerva and Pomona, 
offered him gifts. Klaus Van Aken, or as he preferred 
to be called, Nicolaus Aquanus, was a singular man, 
who had received good gifts from more than one of the 
Olympians; for besides his business he zealously de- 
voted himself to science and several of the arts. He 
was an excellent silver-smith, a die-cutter and engraver 
of great skill, had a remarkable knowledge of coins, was 
an industrious student and collector of antiquities. His 
little tap-room was also a museum ; for on the shelves, 
that surrounded it, stood rare objects of every descrip- 
tion, in rich abundance and regular order; old jugs and 
tankards, large and small coins, gems in carefully-sealed 
glass-cases, antique lamps of clay and bronze, stones 
with ancient Roman inscriptions, Roman and Greek 
terra-cotta, polished fragments of marble which he had 
found in Italy among the ruins, the head of a faun, an 
arm, a foot and other bits of Pagan works of art, a 
beautifully-enamelled casket of Byzantine work, and 
another with enamelled ornamentation from Limoges. 
Even half a Roman coat of mail and a bit of mosaic 
from a Roman bath were to be seen here. Amid these 
antiquities, stood beautiful Venetian glasses, pine-cones 
and ostrich-eggs. Such another tap-room could scarcely 
be found in Holland, and even the liquor, which a 
neatly -dressed maid poured for the g lests from oddly- 
shaped tankards into exquisitely-wrought goblets, was 
exceptionally fine. In this room Herr Aquanus himself 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 255 

was in the habit of appearing among his guests ; in the 
other, opposite to the entrance, his wife held sway. 

On this day, the “ Angulus,” as the beautiful tap- 
room was called, was but thinly occupied, for the sun 
had just set, though the lamps were, already lighted. 
These rested in three-branched iron chandeliers, every 
portion of which, from the slender central shaft to the 
intricately-carved and twisted ornaments, had been care- 
fully wrought by Aquanus with his own hand. 

Several elderly gentlemen were at one table enjoying 
their wine, while at another were Captain Van der Laen, 
a brave Hollander, who was receiving English pay and 
had come to the city with the other defenders of Alfen, 
the musician Wilhelm, Junker Georg, and the land- 
lord. 

“ It’s a pleasure to meet people like you, Junker,” 
said Aquanus. “ You’ve travelled with your eyes open, 
and what you tell me about Brescia excites my curiosity. 
I should have liked to see the inscription.” 

“ I’ll get it for you,” replied the young man; “ for if 
the Spaniards don’t send me into another world, I shall 
certainly cross the Alps again. Did you find any of 
these Roman antiquities in your own country ?” 

“ Yes. At the Roomburg Canal, perhaps the site of 
the old Praetorium, and at Katwyk. The forum 
Hadriani was probably located near Voorburg. The 
coat of mail, I showed you, came from there.” 

“ An old, green, half-corroded thing,” cried Georg. 
“ And yet ! What memories the sight of it awakens ! 
Did not some Roman armorer forge it for the wander- 
ing emperor? When I look at this coat of mail, Rome 
and her legions appear before my eyes. Who would not, 
like you, Herr Wilhelm, go to the Tiber to increase 


256 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


the short span of the present by the long centuries of 
the past ! ” 

“ I should be glad to go to Italy once more with 
you,” replied Wilhelm. 

“ And I with you.” 

“ Let us first secure our liberty,” said the musician. 
“ When that is accomplished, each individual will 
belong to himself, and then : why should I conceal it, 
nothing will keep me in Leyden.” 

“ And the organ ? Your father ?” asked Aquanus. 

“My brothers will remain here, snug in their own 
nest,” answered Wilhelm. “ But something urges, im- 
pels me — ” 

“ There are still waters and rivers on earth,” inter- 
rupted Georg, “ and in the sky the fixed stars remain 
quiet and the planets cannot cease from wandering. So 
among human beings, there are contented persons, who 
like their own places, and birds of passage like us. To 
be sure, you needn’t go to Italy to hear fine singing. I 
just heard a voice, a voice — ” 

“ Where ? You make me eager.” 

“ In the court-yard of Herr Van der Werff’s house.” 

“ That was his wife.” 

“ Oh, no! Her voice sounds differently.” 

During this conversation, Captain Van der Laen had 
risen and examined die landlord’s singular treasures. 
He was now standing before a board, on which the 
head of an ox was sketched in charcoal, freely, boldly 
and with perfect fidelity to nature. 

“ What magnificent piece of beef is this ?” he asked 
the landlord. 

“ No less a personage than Frank Floris sketched 
it,” replied Aquanus. “He once came here from Brus- 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


2 57 


sels and called on Meister Artjen. The old man had 
gone out, so Floris took a bit of charcoal and drew 
these lines with it. When Artjen came home and found 
the ox’s head, he stood before it a long time and finally 
exclaimed : ‘ Frank Floris, or the devil !’ This story — 

But there comes the burgomaster. Welcome, Meister 
Peter. A rare honor.” 

All the guests rose and respectfully greated Van der 
Werff; Georg started up to offer him his chair. Peter 
sat down for a short time and drank a glass of wine, 
but soon beckoned to the Junker and went out with 
him into the street. 

There he briefly requested him to go to his house, 
for they had an important communication to make, and 
then went to Van Hout’s residence, which was close 
beside the inn. 

Georg walked thoughtfully towards the burgo- 
master’s. 

The “they” could scarcely have referred to any one 
except Maria. What could she want of him at so late 
an hour ? Had his friend regretted having offered him 
lodgings in her own house ? He was to move into his 
new quarters early next morning; perhaps she wished 
to inform him of this change of mind, before it was too 
late. Maria treated him differently from before, there 
was no doubt of that, but surely this was natural ! He 
had dreamed of a different, far different meeting! He 
had come to Holland to support the good cause of 
Orange, yet he would certainly have turned his steed 
towards his beloved Italy, where a good sword was 
always in demand, instead of to the north, had he not 
hoped to find in Holland her, whom he had never for- 
gotten, for whom he had never ceased to long — Now 


2c8 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


she was the wife of another, a man who had shown him 
kindness, given him his confidence. To tear his love 
from his heart was impossible; but he owed it to her 
husband and his own honor to be strong, to resolutely 
repress every thought of possessing her, and only rejoice 
in seeing her; and this he must try to accomplish. 

He had told himself all these things more than once, 
but realized that he was walking with unsteady steps, 
upon a narrow pathway, when she met him outside the 
dining-room and he felt how cold and tremulous was 
the hand she laid in his. 

Maria led the way, and he silently followed her into 
Henrica’s room. The latter greeted him with a friendly 
gesture, but both ladies hesitated to utter the first word. 
The young man turned hastily, noticed that he was in 
the room overlooking the court-yard, and said, eagerly : 

“ I was down below just before twilight, to look at 
my new quarters, and heard singing from this room, and 
such singing ! At first I didn’t know what was coming, 
for the tones were husky, weak, and broken, but after- 
wards — afterwards the melody burst forth like a stream 
of lava through the ashes. We ought to wish many 
sorrows to one, who can lament thus.” 

“You shall make the singer’s acquaintance,” said 
Maria, motioning towards the young girl. “ Fraulein 
Henrica Van Hoogstraten, a beloved guest in our 
house.” 

“ Were you the songstress ?” asked Georg. 

“ Does that surprise you ?” replied Henrica. “ My 
voice has certainly retained its strength better than my 
body, wasted by long continued suffering. I feel how 
deeply my eyes are sunken and how pale I must be. 
Singing certainly lightens pain, and I have been de- 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


2 59 


prived of the comforter long enough. Not a note has 
passed my lips for weeks, and now my heart aches so, 
that I would far rather weep than sing. ‘ What troubles 
me?’ you will ask, and yet Maria gives me courage to 
request a chivalrous service, almost without parallel, at 
your hands.” 

“ Speak, speak,” Georg eagerly exclaimed. , “If 
Frau Maria summons me and I can serve you, dear 
lady : here I am, dispose of me.” 

Henrica did not avoid his frank glance, as she 
replied : 

“ First hear what a great service we ask of you. 
You must prepare yourself to hear a short story. I 
am still weak and have put my strength to a severe test 
to-day, Maria must speak for me.” 

The young wife fulfilled this task quietly and clearly, 
closing with the words : 

“ The messenger we need, I have found myself. You 
must be he, Junker Georg.” 

Henrica had not interrupted the burgomaster’s wife ; 
but now said warmly : 

“ I have only made your acquaintance to-day, but I 
trust you entirely. A few hours ago, black would have 
been my color, but if you will be my knight, I’ll choose 
cheerful green, for I now begin to hope again. Will you 
venture to take the ride for me ?” 

Hitherto Georg had gazed silently at the floor. Now 
he raised his head, saying : 

“ If I can obtain leave of absence, I will place my- 
self at your disposal ; — but my lady’s color is blue, and 
I am permitted to wear no other.” 

Henrica’slips quivered slightly, but the young noble- 
man continued : 

/ 


26 o 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


“ Captain Van der Laen is my superior officer. I’ll 
speak to him at once.” 

“ And if he says no ? ” asked Maria. 

Henrica interrupted her and answered haughtily : 

“Then I beg you to send me Herr Wilhelm, the 
musician.” 

Georg bowed and went to the tavern. 

As soon as the ladies were alone, the young girl 
asked : 

“ Do you know Herr von Dornburg’s lady ?” 

“ How should I ? ” replied Maria. “ Give yourself a 
little rest, Fraulein. As soon as the Junker comes back, 
I’ll bring him to you.” 

The young wife left the room and seated herself at 
the spinning-wheel with Barbara Georg kept them 
waiting a long time, but at midnight again appeared, 
accompanied by two companions. It was not within 
the limits of thq captain’s authority to grant him a leave 
of absence for several weeks — the journey to Italy 
would have required that length of time — but the 
Junker had consulted the musician, and the latter had 
found the right man, with whom Wilhelm speedily 
made the necessary arrangements, and brought him 
without delay : it was the old steward, Belotti. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

On the morning of the following day the spacious 
shooting-grounds, situated not far from the White 
Gate, between the Rapenburg and the city- wall, pre- 
sented a busy scene, for by a decree of the council 


THE BURGOMASTERS WIFE. 


261 


the citizens and inhabitants, without exception, no 
matter whether they were poor or rich, of noble or 
plebeian birth, were to take a solemn oath to be loyal 
to the Prince and the good cause. 

Commissioner Van Bronkhorst, Burgomaster Van 
der Werff, and two other magistrates, clad in festal 
attire, stood under a group of beautiful linden-tr,ees to 
receive the oaths of the men and youths, who flocked to 
the spot. The solemn ceremonial had not yet com- 
menced. Janus Dousa, in full uniform, a coat of mail 
over his doublet and a helmet on his head, arm-in-arm 
with Van Hout, approached Meister Peter and the 
commissioner, saying: “ Here it is again! Not one of 
the humbler citizens and workmen is absent, but the 
gentlemen in velvet and fur are but thinly represented.” 

“ They shall come yet !” cried the city clerk men- 
acingly. . 

“ What will formal vows avail ?” replied the burgo- 
master. “ Whoever desires liberty, must grant it. 
Besides, this hour will teach us on whom we can 
depend.” 

“ Not a single man of the militia is absent,” said the 
commissioner. 

“ There is comfort in that. What is stirring yonder 
in the linden ?” 

The men looked up and perceived Adrian, who was 
swaying in the top of the tree, as a concealed listener. 

“ The boy must be everywhere,” exclaimed Peter. 
“ Come down, saucy lad. You appear at a convenient 
time.” 

The boy clung to a limb with his hands, let himself 
drop to the ground and stood before his father with a 
penitent face, which he knew how to assume when 


262 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


occasion required. The burgomaster uttered no further 
words of reproof, but bade him go home and tell his 
mother, that he saw no possibility of getting Belotti 
through the Spanish lines in safety, and also that Father 
Damianus had promised to call on the young lady in 
the course of the day. 

“ Hurry, Adrian, and you, constables, keep all un- 
bidden persons away from these trees, for any place 
where an oath is taken becomes sacred ground — The 
clergymen have seated themselves yonder near the 
target. They have the precedence. Have the kind- 
ness to summon them, Herr Van Hout. Dominie 
Verstroot wishes to make an address, and then I would 
like to utter a few words of admonition to the citizens 
myself.” 

Van Hout withdrew, but before he had reached the 
preachers Junker von Warmond appeared, and reported 
that a messenger, a handsome young lad, had come as 
an envoy. He was standing before the White Gate and 
had a letter. 

“ From Valdez ?” 

“ I don’t know ; but the young fellow is a Hollander 
and his face is familiar to me.” 

“ Conduct him here ; but don’t interrupt us until the 
ceremony of taking the oath is over. The messenger 
can tell Valdez what he has seen and heard here. It 
will do the Castilian good, to know in advance what we 
intend.” 

The Junker withdrew, and when he returned with 
Nicolas Van Wfbisma, who was the messenger, Dominie 
Verstroot had finished his stirring speech. Van der 
Werff was still speaking. The sacred fire of enthusiasm 
sparkled in his eyes, and though the few words he ad- 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


263 


dressed to his fellow-combatants in the deepest chest 
tones of his powerful voice were plain and unadorned, 
they found their way to the souls of his auditors. 

Nicolas also followed the speech with a throbbing 
heart ; it seemed as if the tall, earnest man under the 
linden were speaking directly to him and to him alone, 
when at the close he raised his voice once more g.nd ex- 
claimed enthusiastically : 

“ And now let what will, come ! A brave man from 
your midst has said to-day : ‘ We will not yield, so long 
as an arm is left on our bodies, to raise food to our lips 
and wield a sword ! * If we all think thus, twenty 
Spanish armies will find their graves before these walls. 
On Leyden depends the liberty of Holland. If we 
waver and fall, to escape the misery that only threatens 
us to-day, but will pitilessly oppress and torture us later, 
our children will say : ‘ The men of Leyden were blind 
cowards ; it is their fault, that the name of Hollander is 
held in no higher esteem, than that of a useless slave.* 
But if we faithfully hold out and resist the gloomy 
foreigner to the last man and the last mouthful of bread, 
they will remember us with tears and joyfully exclaim : 
* We owe it to them, that our noble, industrious, happy 
people is permitted to place itself proudly beside the 
other nations, and need no longer tolerate the miserable 
cuckoo in its own nest. Let whoever loves honor, 
whoever is no degenerate wretch, that betrays his 
parents’ house, whoever would rather be a free man 
than a slave, ere raising his hand before God to take 
the oath, exclaim with me : ‘ Long live our shield, 
Orange, and a free Holland ! ’ ” 

“They shall live!” shouted hundreds of powerful 
voices, five, ten, twenty times. The gunner discharged 


264 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


the cannon planted near the target, drums beat, one 
flourish of trumpets after another filled the air, the 
ringing of bells from all the towers of the city echoed 
over the heads of the enthusiastic crowd, and the cheering 
continued until the commissioner waved his hand and 
the swearing fealty began. 

The guilds and the armed defenders of the city 
pressed forward in bands under the linden. Now 
impetuously, now with dignified calmness, now with 
devout exaltation, hands were raised to take the oath, 
and whoever clasped hands did so with fervent warmth. 
Two hours elapsed before all had sworn loyalty, and 
many a group that had passed under the linden together, 
warmly grasped each other’s hands on the grounds in 
pledge of a second silent vow. 

Nicolas Van Wibisma sat silently, with his letter in 
his lap, beside a target opposite the spot where the 
oath was taken, but sorrowful, bitter emotions were 
seething in his breast. How gladly he would have wept 
aloud and tom his father’s letter ! How gladly, when 
he saw the venerable Herr Van Montfort come hand in 
hand with the grey-haired Van der Does to be sworn, he 
would have rushed to their side to take the oath, and 
call to the earnest man beneath the linden : 

“ I am no degenerate wretch, who betrays his 
parents’ house ; I desire to be no slave, no Spaniard ; 
I am a Netherlander, like yourself.” 

But he did not go, did not speak, he remained sit- 
ting motionless till the ceremony was over and Junker 
von Warmond conducted him under the linden. Van 
Hout and both the Van der Does had joined the magis- 
trates who had administered the oath. Bowing silently, 
Nicolas delivered his father’s letter to the burgomaster. 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


265 


Van der WerfF broke the seal, and after reading it, 
handed it to the other gentlemen, then turning to Nico- 
las, said : 

“Wait here, Junker. Your father counsels us to 
yield the city to the Spaniards, and promises a pardon 
from the King. You cannot doubt the answer ; after 
what you have heard in this place.” 

“ There is but one,” cried Van Hout, in the midst 
of reading the letter. “ Tear the thing up and make 
no reply.” 

“ Ride home, in God’s name,” added Janus Dousa. 
“ But wait, I’ll give you something more for Valdez.” 

“ Then you will vouchsafe no reply to my father’s 
letter ?” asked Nicolas. 

“ No, Junker. We wish to hold no intercourse with 
Baron Matanesse,” replied the commissioner. “ As for 
you, you can return home or wait here ; just as you 
choose.” 

“Go to your cousin, Junker,” said Janus Dousa 
kindly; “ it will probably be an hour before I can find 
paper, pen and sealing wax. Fraulein Van Hoogstraten 
will be glad to hear, through you, from her father.” 

“ If agreeable to you, young sir,” added the burgo- 
master ; “ my house stands open to you.” 

Nicolas hesitated a moment, then said quickly : 

“ Yes, take me to her.” 

When the youth had reached the north end of the 
city with Herr von Warmond, who had undertaken to 
accompany him, he asked the latter : 

“Are you Junker Van Duivenvoorde, Herr von 
Warmond ?” 

“ I am.” 


2 66 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


“ And you captured Brill, with the Beggars, from the 
Spaniards ?” 

“ I had that good fortune.” 

“ And yet, you are of a good old family. And were 
there not other noblemen with the Beggars also ?” 

“ Certainly. Do you suppose it ill-beseems us, to 
have a heart for our ancestors’ home ? My forefathers, 
as well as yours, were noble before a Spaniard ever en- 
tered the land.” 

“ But King Philip rules us as the lawful sover- 
eign.” 

“ Unhappily. And therefore we obey his Stadt- 
holder, the Prince, who reigns in his name. The per- 
jured hangman needs a guardian. Ask on ; I’ll answer 
willingly.” 

Nicolas did not heed the request, but walked silently 
beside his companion until they reached the Achter- 
gracht. There he stood still, seized the captain’s arm in 
great excitement, and said hastily in low, broken sen- 
tences : 

“ It weighs on my heart. I must tell some one. I 
want to be Dutch. I hate the Castilians. I have 
learned to know them in Leyderdorp and at the Hague. 
They don’t heed me, because I am young, and they are 
not aware that I understand their language. So my 
eyes were opened. When they speak of us, it is with 
contempt and scorn. I know all that has been done by 
Alva and Vargas. I have heard from the Spaniards* 
own lips, that they would like to root us out, exterminate 
us. If I could only do as I pleased, and were it not for 
my father, I know what I would do. My head is so 
confused. The burgomaster’s speech is driving me out 
of my wits. Tell him, Junker, I beseech you, tell him I 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 267 

hate the Spaniards and it would be my pride to be a 
Netherlander.” 

Both had continued their walk, and as they ap- 
proached the burgomaster’s house, the captain, who had 
listened to the youth with joyful surprise, said : 

“ You’re cut from good timber, Junker, an$ on the 
way to the right goal. Only keep Herr Peter’s speech 
in your mind, and remember what you have learned in 
history. To whom belong the shining purple pages in 
the great book of national history? To the tyrants, 
their slaves and eye-servants, or the men who lived and 
died for liberty ? Hold up your head. This conflict 
will perhaps outlast both our lives, and you still have a 
long time to put yourself on the right side. The noble- 
man must serve his Prince, but he need be no slave of 
a ruler, least of all a foreigner, an enemy of his nation. 
Here we are ; I’ll come for you again in an hour. Give 
me your hand. I should like to call you by your 
Christian name in future, my brave Nico.” 

“ Call me so,” exclaimed the youth, “ and — you’ll 
send no one else? I should like to talk with you 
again.” 

The J unker was received in the burgomaster’s house 
by Barbara. Henrica could not see him immediately, 
Father Damianus was with her, so he was obliged to 
wait in the dining-room until the priest appeared. 
Nicolas knew him well, and had even confessed to him 
once the year before. After greeting the estimable man 
and answering his inquiry how he had come there, he 
said frankly and hastily : 

“ Forgive me, Father, but something weighs upon 
my heart. You are a holy man, and must know. Is it 
a crime, if a Hollander fights against the Spaniards, is it 


268 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


a sin, if a Hollander wishes to be and remain what God 
made him ? I can’t believe it.” 

“ Nor do I,” replied Damianus in his simple manner. 
“ Whoever clings firmly to our holy church, whoever 
loves his neighbor and strives to do right, may con- 
fidently favor the Dutch, and pray and fight for the 
freedom of his native land.” 

“ Ah !” exclaimed Nicolas, with sparkling eyes. 

“ For,” continued Damianus more eagerly, “for you 
see, before the Spaniards came into the country, they 
were good Catholics here and led devout lives, pleasing in 
the sight of God. Why should it not be so again ? The 
most High has separated men into nations, because He 
wills, that they should lead their own lives and shape them 
for their salvation and His honor ; but not to give the 
stronger nation the right to torture and oppress another. 
Suppose your father went out to walk and a Spanish 
grandee should jump on his shoulders and make him 
taste whip and spur, as if he were a horse. It would be 
bad for the Castilian. Now substitute Holland for Herr 
Matanesse, and Spain for the grandee, and you will 
know what I mean. There is nothing left for us to do, 
except cast off the oppressor. Our holy church will 
sustain no loss. God appointed it, and it will stand 
whether King Philip or another rules. Now you know 
my opinion. Do I err or not, in thinking that the 
name of Glipper no longer pleases you, dear J unker ? ” 
“No, Father Damianus! — You are right, a thous- 
and times right. It is no sin, to desire a free Holland.” 
“ Who told you it was one ? ” 

“ Canon Bermont and our chaplain.” 

“ Then we are of a different opinion concerning this 
temporal matter. Give to God the things that are 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


269 


God’s, and remain where the Lord placed you. When 
your beard grows, if you wish to fight for the liberty of 
Holland, do so confidently. That is a sin for which I 
will gladly grant you absolution.” 

Henrica was greatly delighted to see the fresh, happy- 
looking youth again. Nicolas was obliged to tell her 
about her father and his, and inform her how he had 
come to Leyden. When she heard that he intended to 
return in an hour, a bright idea entered her mind, which 
was wholly engrossed by Belotti’s mission. She told 
Nicolas what she meant to do, and begged him to take 
the steward through the Spanish army to the Hague. 
The Junker was not only ready to fulfil her request, but 
promised that, if the old man wanted to return, he 
would apprize her of it in some way. 

At the end of an hour she bade the boy farewell, 
and when again walking towards the Achtergracht with 
Herr von Warmond, he asked joyously : 

“ How shall I get to the Beggars ?” 

‘'You?” asked the captain in astonishment. 

“ Yes, I!” replied the Junker eagerly. “I shall soon 
be seventeen, and when I am — Wait, just wait — you’ll 
hear of me yet.” 

“ Right, Nicolas, right,” replied the other. “ Let us 
be Holland nobles and noble Hollanders.” 

Three hours later, Junker Matanesse Van Wibisma 
rode into the Hague with Belotti, whom he had loved 
from childhood. He brought his father nothing but a 
carefully-folded and sealed letter, which Janus Dousa, 
with a mischievous smile, had given him on behalf of 
the citizens of Leyden for General Valdez, and which 
contained, daintily inscribed on a large sheet, the follow- 
ing lines from Dionysius Cato : 


270 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


“ Fistula dulce canit volucrem dum decipit auceps .” 

“ Sweet are the notes of the flute, when the fowler 
lures the bird to his nest.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

The first week in June and half the second had 
passed, the beautiful sunny days had drawn to a close, 
and numerous guests sought the “Angulus” in Aquarius’s 
tavern during the evening hours. It was so cosy there 
when the sea-breeze whistled, the rain poured, and the 
water fell plashing on the pavements. The Spanish be- 
sieging army encompassed the city like an iron wall. 
Each individual felt that he was a fellow-prisoner of his 
neighbor, and drew closer to companions of his own 
rank and opinions. Business was stagnant, idleness and 
anxiety weighed like lead on the minds of all, and who- 
ever wished to make time pass rapidly and relieve his 
oppressed soul, went to the tavern to give utterance to 
his own hopes and fears, and hear what others were 
thinking and feeling in the common distress. 

All the tables in the Angulus were occupied, and 
whoever wanted to be understood by a distant neighbor 
was forced to raise his voice very loud, for special con- 
versations were being carried on at every table. Here, 
there, and everywhere, people were shouting to the busy 
bar-maid, glasses clinked together, and pewter lids fell 
on the tops of hard stone-ware jugs. 

The talk at a round table in the end of the long 
room was louder than anywhere else. Six officers had 
seated themselves at it, among them Georg von Dorn- 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


271 


burg. Captain Van der Laen, his superior officer, whose 
past career had been a truly heroic one, was loudly re- 
lating in his deep voice, strange and amusing tales of 
his travels by sea and land, Colonel Mulder often inter- 
rupted him, and at every somewhat incredible story, 
smilingly told a similar, but perfectly impossible adven- 
ture of his own. Captain Van Duivenvoorde soothingly 
interposed, when Van der Laen, who was conscious of 
never deviating far from the truth, angrily repelled the 
old man’s jesting insinuations. Captain Cromwell, a 
grave man with a round head and smooth long hair, 
who had come to Holland to fight for the faith, rarely 
mingled in the conversation, and then only with a few 
words of scarcely intelligible Dutch. Georg, leaning 
far back in his chair, stretched his feet out before him 
and stared silently into vacancy. 

Herr Aquanus, the host, walked from one table to 
another, and when he at last reached the one where 
the officers sat, paused opposite to the Thuringian, 
saying : 

“Where are your thoughts, Junker? One would 
scarcely know you during the last few days. What 
has come over you ?” 

Georg hastily sat erect, stretched himself like a 
person roused from sleep, and answered pleasantly : 

“ Dreams come in idleness.” 

“ The cage is getting too narrow for him,” said Cap- 
tain Van der Laen. “ If this state of things lasts long, 
we shall all get dizzy like the sheep.” 

“ And as stiff as the brazen Pagan god on the shelf 
yonder,” added Colonel Mulder. 

“ There was the same complaint during the first 
siege,” replied the host, “but Herr von Noyelles drowned 


272 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


his discontent and emptied many a cask of my best 
liquor.” 

“Tell the gentlemen how he paid you,” cried 
Colonel Mulder. 

“ There hangs the paper framed,” laughed Aquanus. 
“ Instead of sending money, he wrote this : 

• Full many a favor, dear friend, hast thou done me, 

For which good hard coin glad wouldst thou be to see 
There’s none in my pockets ; so for the debt 
In place of dirty coin, 

This written sheet so fine ; 

Paper money in Leyden is easy to get.’ ” 

“Excellent!” cried Junker von Warmond, “and 
besides you made the die for the pasteboard coins 
yourself.” 

“ Of course! Herr von Noyelles’ sitting still, cost me 
dear. You have already made two expeditions.” 

“ Hush, hush, for God’s sake say nothing about the 
first sally ! ” cried the captain. “ A well-planned enter- 
prise, which was shamefully frustrated, because the 
leader lay down like a mole to sleep ! Where has such 
a thing happened a second time ? ” 

“ But the other ended more fortunately,” said the 
host. “Three hundred hams, one hundred casks of 
beer, butter, ammunition, and the most worthless of all 
spies into the bargain ; always an excellent prize.” 

“ And yet a failure !” cried Captain Van der Laen, 
“We ought to have captured and brought in all the pro 
vision ships on the Leyden Lake! And the Kaag! To 
think that this fort on the island should be in the hands 
of the enemy.” 

“ But the people have held out bravely,” said von 
Warmond. 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


273 


“ There are real devils among them,” replied Van der 
Laen, laughing. “ One struck a Spaniard down and, 
in the midst of the battle, took off his red breeches and 
pulled them on his own legs.” 

“ I know the man,” added the landlord, “ his name 
is Van Keulen; there he sits yonder over his beer, 
telling the people all sorts of queer stories. A fellow 
with a face like a satyr. We have no lack of comfort 
yet! Remember Chevraux’ defeat, and the Beggars* 
victory at Vlissingen on the Scheldt.” 

“ To brave Admiral Boisot and the gallant Beggar 
troops!” cried Captain Van der Laen, touching glasses 
with Colonel Mulder. The latter turned with upraised 
beaker towards the Thuringian and, as the Junker who 
had relapsed into his reverie, did not notice the move- 
ment, irritably exclaimed : 

“ Well, Herr Dornburg, you require a long time to 
pledge a man.” 

Georg started and answered hastily : 

“Pledge? Oh! yes. Pledge. I pledge you, Colonel!” 
With these words he raised the goblet, drained it at 
a single draught, made the nail test and replaced it on 
the table. 

“ Well done ! ” cried the old man ; and Herr Aquanus 
said : 

“ He learned that at the University; studying makes 
people thirsty.” 

As he uttered the words, he cast a friendly glance of 
anxiety at the young German, and then looked towards 
the door, through which Wilhelm had just entered the 
Angulus. The landlord went to meet him and whis- 
kered : 

“ I don’t like the German nobleman’s appearance. 


274 THE burgomaster’s wife. 

The singing lark has become a mousing night-bird. 
What ails him ?” 

“ Home-sickness, no news from his family, and the 
snare into which the war has drawn him in his pursuit 
of glory and honor. He’ll soon be his old self 
again.” 

“ I hope so,” replied the host. “ Such a succulent 
little tree will quickly rebound, when it is pressed to the 
earth ; help the fine young fellow.” 

A guest summoned the landlord, but the musician 
joined the officers and began a low conversation with 
Georg, which was drowned by the confused mingling of 
loud voices. 

Wilhelm came from the Van der Werff house, where 
he had learned that the next day but one, June 
fourteenth, would be the burgomaster’s birthday. 
Adrian had told Henrica, and the latter informed him. 
The master of the house was to be surprised with a song 
on the morning of his birthday festival. 

“ Excellent,” said Georg, interrupting his friend, 
“ she will manage the matter admirably.” 

“Not she alone; we can depend upon Frau Van 
der Werff too. At first she wanted to decline, but when 
I proposed a pretty madrigal, yielded and took the 
soprano.” 

“ The soprano ?” asked the Junker excitedly. “ Of 
course I’m at your service. Let us go; have you the 
notes at home ?” 

“No, Herr von Dornburg, I have just taken them 
to the ladies ; but early to-morrow morning — ” 

“ There will be a rehearsal early to-morrow morn- 
ing ! The jug is for me, Jungfer Dortchen! Your, 
health, Colonel Mulder ! Captain Duivenvoorde, I 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


2 75 

drain this goblet to your new standard and hope to have 
many a jolly ride by your side.” 

The German’s eyes again sparkled with an eager 
light, and when Captain Van der Laen, continuing his 
conversation, cried enthusiastically : “ The Beggars of 

the Sea will yet sink the Spanish power. The sea, 
gentlemen, the sea! To base one’s cause on nothing, is 
the best way! To exult, leap and grapple in the storm 1 
To fight and struggle man to man and breast to breast 
on the deck of the enemy’s ship ! To fight and conquer, 
or perish with the foe !” 

“To your health, Junker!” exclaimed the coloneL 
“ Zounds, we need such youths !” 

“ Now you are your old self again,” said Wilhelm, 
turning to his friend. “ Touch glasses to your dear ones 
at home.” 

“ Two glasses for one,” cried Georg. “ To the dear 
ones at home — to the joys and sorrows of the heart, to 
the fair woman we love ! War is rapture, love is life ! 
Let the wounds bleed, let the heart break into a thous- 
and pieces. Laurels grow green on the battle-field, love 
twines garlands of roses — roses with thorns, yet beauti- 
ful roses ! Go, beaker ! No other lips shall drink from 
you.” 

Georg’s cheeks glowed as he flung the glass goblet 
into a corner of the room, where it shattered into frag- 
ments. His comrades at the table cheered loudly, but 
Captain Cromwell rose quietly to leave the room, and 
the landlord shook his wise head doubtfully. 

It seemed as if fire had poured into Georg’s soul and 
his spirit had gained wings. The thick waving locks 
curled in dishevelled masses around his handsome head, 
as leaning far back in his chair with unfastened collar, 


276 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


he mingled clever sallies and brilliant similes with the 
quiet conversation of the others. Wilhelm listened to 
his words sometimes with admiration, sometimes with 
anxiety. It was long past midnight, when the musician 
left the tavern with his friend. Colonel Mulder looked 
after him and exclaimed to those left behind : 

“The fellow is possessed with a devil.” 

The next morning the madrigal was practised at the 
burgomaster’s house, while its master was presiding over 
a meeting at the town-hall. Georg stood between Hen- 
rica and Maria. So long as the musician found it neces- 
sary to correct errors and order repetitions, a cheerful 
mood pervaded the little choir, and Barbara, in the ad- 
joining room, often heard the sound of innocent laugh- 
ter; but when each had mastered his or her part and 
the madrigal was faultlessly executed, the ladies grew 
more and more grave. Maria gazed fixedly at the sheet 
of music, and rarely had her voice sounded so faultlessly 
pure, so full of feeling. Georg adapted his singing to 
hers and his eyes, whenever they were raised from the 
notes, rested on her face. Henrica sought to meet the 
Junker’s glance, but always in vain, yet she wished to 
divert his attention from the young wife, and it tortured 
her to remain unnoticed. Some impulse urged her to 
surpass Maria, and the whole passionate wealth of her 
nature rang out in her singing. Her fervor swept the 
others along. Maria’s treble rose exultantly above the 
German’s musical voice, and Henrica’s tones blended 
angrily yet triumphantly in the strain. The delighted 
and inspired musician beat the time and, borne away by 
the liquid melody of Henrica’s voice, revelled in sweet 
recollections of her sister. 

When the serenade was finished, he eagerly cried : 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


277 


“ Again !” The rivalry between the singers commenced 
with fresh vigor, and this time the Junker’s beaming gaze 
met the young wife’s eyes. She hastily lowered the 
notes, stepped out of the semicircle, and said : 

“We know the madrigal. Early to-morrow morning, 
Meister Wilhelm; my time is limited.” 

“ Oh, oh !” cried the musician regretfully. “ It was 
going on so splendidly, and there were only a few bars 
more.” But Maria was already standing at the door 
and made no reply, except : 

“ To-morrow.” 

The musician enthusiastically thanked Henrica for 
her singing ; Georg courteously expressed his gratitude. 
When both had taken leave, Henrica paced rapidly to 
and fro, passionately striking her clenched fist in the 
palm of her other hand. 

The singers were ready early on the birthday morn- 
ing, but Peter had risen before sunrise, for there was a 
proposition to be arranged with the city clerk, which 
must be completed before the meeting of the council. 
Nothing was farther from his thoughts than his birthday, 
and when the singers in the dining-room commenced 
their madrigal, he rapped on the door, exclaiming : 

“ We are busy , find another place for your singing.” 

The melody was interrupted for a moment, and Bar- 
bara said : 

“ People picking appjes don’t think of fishing-nets. 
He has no idea it is his birthday. Let the children go 
in first.” 

Maria now entered the study with Adrian and 
Bessie. They carried bouquets in their hands, and the 
young wife had dressed the little girl so prettily that, in 
her white frock, she really looked like a dainty fairy. 


27S THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 

Peter now knew the meaning of the singing, 
warmly embraced the three well-wishers, and when 
the madrigal began again, stood opposite to the per- 
formers to listen. True, the execution was not nearly 
so good as at the rehearsal, for Maria sang in a low 
and somewhat muffled voice, while, spite of Wilhelm’s 
vehement beating of time, the warmth and verve of the 
day before would not return. 

“ Admirable, admirable,” cried Peter, when the 
singers ceased. “Well planned and executed, a beautiful 
birthday surprise.” Then he shook hands with each, 
saying a few cordial words and, as he grasped the 
Junker’s right hand, remarked warmly: “You have 
dropped down on us from the skies during these bad 
days, just at the right time. It is always something to 
have a home in a foreign land, and you have found one 
with us.” 

Georg had bent his eyes on the floor, but at the 
last words raised them and met the burgomaster’s. 
How honestly, how kindly and frankly they looked at 
him ! Deep emotion overpowered him, and without 
knowing what he was doing, he laid his hands on 
Peter’s arms and hid his face on his shoulder. 

Van der Werff suffered him to do so, stroked the 
youth’s hair, and said smiling : 

“ Like Leonhard, wife, just like our Leonhard. We 
will dine together to-day. You, too, Van Hout; and 
don’t forget your wife.” 

Maria assigned the seats at the table, so that she 
was not obliged to look at Georg. His place was 
beside Frau Van Hout and opposite Henrica and the 
musician. At first he was silent and embarrassed, but 
Henrica gave him no rest, and when he had once begun 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


279 


to answer her questions he was soon carried away by her 
glowing vivacity, and gave free, joyous play to his wit. 
Henrica did not remain in his debt, her eyes sparkled, 
and in the increasing pleasure of trying the power of 
her intellect against his, she sought to surpass every jest 
and repartee made by the Junker. She drank no wine, 
but was intoxicated by her own flow of language and 
so completely engrossed Georg’s attention, that he found 
no time to address a word to the other guests. If he 
attempted to do so, she quickly interrupted him and 
compelled him to turn to her again. This constraint 
annoyed the young man ; while struggling against it his 
spirit of wantonness awoke, and he began to irritate 
Henrica into making unprecedented assertions, which he 
opposed with equally unwarrantable ones of his own. 

Maria sometimes listened to the young lady in sur- 
prise, and there was something in Georg’s manner that 
vexed her. Peter took little notice of Henrica ; he was 
talking with Van Hout about the letters from the Glip- 
pers asking a surrender, three of which had already been 
brought into the city, of the uncertain disposition of 
some members of the council and the execution of the 
captured spy. 

Wilheim, who had scarcely vouchsafed his neighbor 
an answer, was now following the conversation of the 
older men and remarked, that he had known the traitor. 
He was a tavern-keeper, in whose inn he had once met 
Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma. 

“ There we have it,” said Van Hout. “ A note was 
found in Quatgelat’s pouch, and the writing bore a mys- 
terious resemblance to the baron’s hand. Quatgelat was 
to enquire about the quantity of provisions in Leyden.” 

“ All alike!” exclaimed the burgomaster. “ Unhap- 


280 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


pily he could have brought tidings only too welcome to 
Valdez. Little that is cheering has resulted from the in- 
vestigation ; though the exact amount has not yet been 
ascertained.” 

“ We must place it during the next few days in 
charge of the ladies.” 

“ Give it to the women ?” asked Peter in astonish- 
ment. 

“ Yes, to us !” cried Van Hout’s wife. “ Why should 
we sit idle, when we might be of use.” 

“ Give us the work !” exclaimed Maria. “We 
are as eager as you, to render the great cause some 
service.” 

“ And believe me,” added Frau Van Hout, “ we 
shall find admittance to store-rooms and cellars much 
more quickly than constables and guards, whom the 
housewives fear.” 

“ Women in the service of the city,” said Peter 
thoughtfully. “ To be honest — but your proposal shall 
be considered. — The young lady is in good spirits to- 
day.” 

Maria glanced indignantly at Henrica, who had 
leaned far across the table. She was showing Georg a 
ring, and laughingly exclaimed : 

“ Don’t you wish to know what the device means ? 
Look, a serpent biting its own tail.” 

“Aha!” replied the Junker, “the symbol of self- 
torment.” 

“ Good, good ! But it has another meaning, which 
you would do well to notice, Sir Knight. Do you know 
the signification of eternity and eternal faith ?” 

“ No, Fraulein, I wasn’t taught to think so deeply at 
Jena.” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


2&I 


“ Of course. Your teachers were men. Men and 
faith, eternal faith !” 

“ Was Delilah, who betrayed Samson to the Philis- 
tines, a man or a woman ?” asked Van Hout. 

“ She was a woman. The exception, that proves 
the rule. Isn’t that so, Maria ?” 

The burgomaster’s wife made no reply except a silent 
nod ; then indignantly pushed back her chair, and the 
meal was over. 


CHAPTER XXVIII, 

• 

Days and weeks had passed, July was followed by 
a sultry August, and that, too, was drawing to a close. 
The Spaniards still surrounded Leyden, and the city 
now completely resembled a prison. The soldiers and 
armed citizens did their duty wearily and sullenly, 
there was business enough at the town-hall, but the 
magistrates’ work was sad and disagreeable ; for no 
message of hope came from the Prince or the Estates, 
and everything to be considered referred to the increas- 
ing distress and the terrible follower of war, the plague, 
which had made its entry into Leyden with the famine. 
Moreover the number of malcontents weekly increased. 
The friends of the old order of affairs now raised their 
voices more and more loudly, and many a friend of 
liberty, who saw his family sickening, joined the Spanish 
sympathizers and demanded the surrender of the city. 
The children w^nt to school and met in the play- 
grounds as before, but there was rarely a flash of the 

41 


282 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFtf. 


merry pertness of former days, and what had become 
of the boys’ red cheeks and the round arms of the little 
girls ? The poor drew their belts tighter, and the morsel 
of bread, distributed by the city to each individual, was 
no longer enough to quiet hunger and support life. 

Junker Georg had long been living in Burgomaster 
Van der Werffs house. 

On the morning of August 29th he returned home 
from an expedition, carrying a cross-bow in his hand, 
while a pouch hung over his shoulder. This time he 
did not go up-stairs, but sought Barbara in the kitchen. 
The widow received him with a friendly nod ; her grey 
eyes sparkled as brightly as ever, but her round face 
had grown narrower and there was a sorrowful quiver 
about the sunken mouth. 

“What do you bring to-day?” she asked the Junker. 

Georg thrust his hand into his game-bag and an- 
swered, smiling: “A fat snipe and four larks; you 
know.” 

“ Poor sparrows ! But what sort of a creature can 
this be ? Headless, legless, and carefully plucked ! 
Junker, Junker, that’s suspicious.” 

“ It will do for the pan, and the name is of no con- 
sequence.” 

“Yet, yet; true, nobody knows on what he fattens, 
but the Lord didn’t create every animal for the human 
stomach.” 

“ That’s just what I said. It’s a short-billed snipe, a 
corvus, a real corvus.” 

“Corvus! Nonsense, I’m afraid of the thing — the 
little feathers under the wings. Good heavens ! surely 
it isn’t a raven ?” 

“ It’s a corvus, as I said. Put the bird in vinegar, 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


283 


roast it with seasoning and it will taste like a real snipe. 
Wild ducks are not to be found every day, as they were 
a short time ago, and sparrows are getting as scarce as 
roses in winter. Every boy is standing about with 
a cross-bow, and in the court-yards people are trying to 
catch them under sieves and with lime-twigs. They 
are going to be exterminated, but one or another is still 
spared. How is the little elf?” 

“ Don’t call her that !” exclaimed the widow. “Give 
her her Christian name. She looks like this cloth, and 
since yesterday has refused to take the milk we daily 
procure for her at a heavy cost. Heaven knows what 
the end will be. Look at that cabbage-stalk. Half a 
stiver ! and that miserable piece of bone ! Once I 
should have thought it too poor for the dogs — and 
now! The whole household must be satisfied with it. 
For supper I shall boil ham-rind with wine and add a 
little porridge to it. And this for a giant like Peter! 
God only knows where he gets his strength; but he 
looks like his own shadow. Maria doesn’t need anything 
more than a bird, but Adrian, poor fellow, often leaves 
the table with tears in his eyes, yet I know he has 
broken many a bit of bread from his thin slice for 
Bessie. It is pitiable. Yet the proverb says : ‘Stretch 
yourself towards the ceiling, or your feet will freeze — ’ 
‘ Necessity knows no law,’ and ‘ Reserve to preserve.’ 
Day before yesterday, like the rest, we again gave of the 
little we still possessed. To-morrow, everything beyond 
what is needed for the next fortnight, must be deliv- 
ered up, and Peter won’t allow us to keep even a bag 
of flour, but what will come then — merciful Heaven ! — ” 

The widow sobbed aloud as she uttered the last 
words and continued, weeping : “ Where do you get 


284 the burgomaster’s wife. 

your strength ? At your age this miserable scrap of 
meat is a mere drop of water on a red-hot stone.” 

“ Herr Van Aken gives me what he can, in addi- 
tion to my ration. I shall get through ; but I witnessed 
a terrible sight to-day at the tailor’s, who mends my 
clothes.” 

“ Well ?” 

“Two of his children have starved to death.” 

“ And the weaver’s family opposite,” added Barbara, 
weeping. “ Such nice people ! The young wife was 
confined four days ago, and this morning mother and 
child expired of weakness, expired, I tell you, like a 
lamp that has consumed its oil and must go out. At 
the cloth-maker Peterssohn’s, the father and all five 
children have died of the plague. If that isn’t pitiful !” 

“ Stop, stop!” said Georg, shuddering. “ I must go 
to the court-yard to drill.” 

“What’s the use of that! The Spaniards don’t 
attack; they leave the work to the skeleton death. 
Your fencing gives an appetite, and the poor hollow 
herrings can scarcely stir their own limbs.” 

“ Wrong, Frau Barbara, wrong,” replied the young 
man. “ The exercise and motion sustains them. Herr 
von Nordwyk knew what he was doing, when he asked 
me to drill them in the dead fencing-master’s place.” 

“ You’re thinking of the ploughshare that doesn’t 
rust. Perhaps you are right; but before you go to work, 
take a sip of this. Our wine is still the best. When 
people have something to do, at least they don’t mutiny, 
like those poor fellows among the volunteers day before 
yesterday. Thank God, they are gone !” 

While the widow was filling a glass, Wilhelm’s mother 
came into the kitchen and greeted Barbara and the 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


285 

young nobleman. She carried under hershawla small 
package clasped tightly to her bosom. Her breadth 
was still considerable, but the flesh, with which she had 
moved about so briskly a few months ago, now seemed 
to have become an oppressive burden. 

She took the little bundle in her right hand, saying : 

“ I have something for your Bessie. My Wilhelm, 
good fellow — ” 

Here she paused and restored her gift to its old place. 
She had seen the Junker’s plucked present, and continued 
in an altered tone : “ So you already have a pigeon — so 
much the better ! The city clerk’s little girl is beginning 
to droop too. I’ll see you to-morrow, if God wills.” 

She was about to go, but Georg stopped her, say- 
ing : “You are mistaken, my good lady. I shot that 
bird to-day, I’ll confess now, Frau Barbara; my corvus 
is a wretched crow.” 

“ I thought so,” cried the widow. “ Such an abomi- 
nation !” 

Yet she thrust her finger into the bird’s breast, say- 
ing : “ But there’s meat on the creature.” 

“ A crow !” cried Wilhelm’s mother, clasping her 
hands. “ True, dogs and cats are already hanging on 
many a spit and have wandered into many a pan. There 
is the pigeon.” 

Barbara unwrapped the bird as carefully, as if it might 
crumble under her fingers, gazing tenderly at it as she 
weighed it carefully in her hand; but the musician’s 
mother said : 

“ It’s the fourth one Wilhelm has killed, and he said 
it would have been a good flier. He intended it special- 
ly for your Bessie. Stuff it nicely with yellow paste, not 
too solid and a little sweetened. That is what children 


286 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


like, and it will agree with her, for it is cheerfully given. 
Put the little thing away. When we have known any 
creature, we feel sorry to see it dead.” 

“ May God reward you !” cried Barbara, pressing 
the kind old hand. “ Oh ! these terrible times !” 

“ Yet there is still something to be thankful for.” 

“ Of course, for it will be even worse in hell,” replied 
the widow. 

“ Don’t fall into sin,” said the aged matron : “You 
have only one sick person in the house. Can I see Frau 
Maria ?” 

“ She is in the workshops, taking the people a little 
meat from our store. Are you too so short of flour ? 
Cows are still to be seen in the pastures, but the grain 
seems to have been actually swept away ; there wasn’t 
a peck in the market. Will you take a sip of wine too ? 
Shall I call my sister-in-law ?” 

“ I will seek her myself. The usury in the market is 
no longer to be endured We can do nothing more 
there, but she is already bringing people to reason.” 

“ The traders in the market ? ” asked Georg. 

“ Yes, Herr von Dornburg, yes. One wouldn’t 
believe how much that delicate woman can accomplish. 
Day before yesterday, when we went about to learn 
how large a stock of provisions every house contains, 
people treated me and the others very rudely, many 
even turned us out of doors. But she went to the 
roughest, and the cellars and store-rooms opened before 
her, as the waves of the sea divided before the people 
of Israel. How she does it, Heaven knows, but the 
people can’t refuse her.” 

Georg drew a long breath and left the kitchen. In 
the court-yard he found several city soldiers, volunteers 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


287 


and militia-men, with whom he went through exercises 
in fencing. Van der Werff placed it at his disposal for 
this purpose, and there certainly was no man in Leyden 
more capable than the German of supplying worthy 
Allertssohn’s place. 

Barbara was not wrong. His pupils looked emaci- 
ated and miserable enough, but many of them had 
learned, in the dead man’s school, to wield the sword 
well, and were heartily devoted to the profession. 

In the centre of the court-yard stood a human 
figure, stuffed with tow and covered with leather, which 
bore on the left breast a bit of red paper in the shape 
of a heart. The more unskilful were obliged to thrust 
at this figure to train the hand and eye; the others 
stood face to face in pairs and fought under Georg’s 
direction with blunt foils. 

The Junker had felt very weak when he entered the 
kitchen, for the larger half of his ration of bread had 
been left at the unfortunate tailor’s ; but Barbara’s wine 
had revived him and, rousing himself, he stepped briskly 
forth to meet his fencers. His doublet was quickly flung 
on a bench, his belt drawn tighter, and he soon stood in 
his white shirt-sleeves before the soldiers. 

As soon as his first word of command was heard, 
Henrica’s window closed with a bang. Formerly it had 
often been opened when the fencing drill began, and 
she had not even shrunk from occasionally clapping her 
hands and calling “ bravo.” This time had long since 
passed, it was weeks since she had bestowed a word or 
glance on the young noble. She had never made such 
advances to any man, would not have striven so hard 
to win a prince’s favor ! And he ? At first he had 
been distant, then more and more assiduously avoided 


288 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


her. Her pride was deeply wounded. Her purpose of 
diverting his attention from Maria had long been for- 
gotten, and moreover something — she knew not what — 
had come between her and the young wife. Not a day 
elapsed in which he did not meet her, and this was a 
source of pleasure to Henrica, because she could show 
him that his presence was a matter of indifference, nay 
even unpleasant. Her imprisonment greatly depressed 
her, and she longed unutterably for the open country, 
the fields and the forest. Yet she never expressed a 
wish to leave the city, for — Georg was in Leyden, and 
every waking and dreaming thought was associated 
with him. She loved him to-day, loathed him to- 
morrow, and did both with all the ardor of her pas- 
sionate heart. She often thought of her sister too, and 
uttered many prayers for her. To win the favor of 
Heaven by good works and escape ennui , she helped 
the Grey Sisters, who lived in a little old convent, next 
to Herr Van der Werff’s house, nurse the sick whom 
they had lovingly received, and even went with Sister 
Gonzaga to the houses of the Catholic citizens, to collect 
alms for the little hospital. But all this was done with- 
out joyous self-devotion, sometimes with extravagant 
zeal, sometimes lazily, and for days not at all. She had 
become excessively irritable, but after being unbearably 
arrogant one day, would seem sorrowful and ill at ease 
the next, though without asking the offended person’s 
pardon. 

The young girl now stood behind the closed window, 
watching Georg, who with a bold spring dashed at the 
leathern figure and ran the sword in his right hand 
through the phantom’s red heart. 

The soldiers loudly expressed their admiration, 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


289 


Henrica’s eyes also sparkled approvingly, but suddenly 
they lost their light, and she stepped farther back into 
the room, for Maria came out of the workshops in the 
court-yard and, with her gaze fixed on the ground, 
walked past the fencers. 

The young wife had grown paler, but her clear blue 
eyes had gained a more confident, resolute expression. 
She had learned to go her own way, and sought and 
found arduous duties in the service of the city and the 
poor. She had remained conqueror in many a severe 
conflict of the heart, but the struggle was not yet over; 
she felt this whenever Georg’s path crossed hers. As 
far as possible she avoided him, for she did not conceal 
from herself, that the attempt to live with him on the foot- 
ing of a friend and brother, would mean nothing but the 
first step on the road to ruin for him and herself. That he 
was honestly aiding her by a strong effort at self-control, 
she gratefully felt, for she stood heart to heart with her 
husband on the ship of life. She wished no other 
guide ; nay the thought of going to destruction with 
Peter had no terror to her. And yet, yet ! Georg was 
like the magnetic mountain, that attracted her, and 
which she must avoid to save the vessel from sinking. 

To-day she had been asking the different workmen 
how they fared, and witnessed scenes of the deepest 
misery. 

The brave men knew that the surrender of the city 
might put an end to their distress, but wished to hold 
out for the sake of liberty and their religion, and en- 
dured their suffering as an inevitable misfortune. 

In the entry of the house Maria met Wilhelm’s 
mother, and promised her she would consult with Frau 
Van Hout that very day, concerning the extortion prac- 


290 THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 

tised by the market-men. Then she went to poor Bessie, 
who sat, pale and weak, in a little chair. Her prettiest 
doll had been lying an hour in the same position on her 
lap. The child’s little hands and will were too feeble to 
move the toy. Trautchen brought in a cup of new 
milk. The citizens were not yet wholly destitute of this, 
for a goodly number of cows still grazed outside the 
city walls under the protection of the cannon, but the 
child refused to drink and could only be induced, amid 
tears, to swallow a few drops. 

While Maria was affectionately coaxing the little one, 
Peter entered the room. The tall man, the very model 
of a stately burgher, who paid careful heed to his out- 
ward appearance, now looked careless of his person. 
His brown hair hung over his forehead, his thick, closely- 
trimmed moustache straggled in thin lines over his 
cheeks, his doublet had grown too large, and his stock- 
ings did not fit snugly as usual, but hung in wrinkles on 
his powerful legs. 

Greeting his wife with a careless wave of the hand, 
he approached the child and gazed silently at it a long 
time with tender affection. Bessie turned her pretty lit- 
tle face towards him and tried to welcome him, but the 
smile died on her lips, and she again gazed listlessly at 
her doll. Peter stooped, raised her in his arms, called 
her by name and pressed his lips to her pale cheeks. The 
child gently stroked his beard and then said feebly : 

“ Put me down, dear father, I feel dizzy up here.” 

The burgomaster, with tears in his eyes, put his dar- 
ling carefully back in her little chair, then left the room 
and went to his study. Maria followed him and asked : 
“Is there no message yet from the Prince or the es- 
tates ?” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


29I 


He silently shrugged his shoulders. 

“ But they will not, dare not forget us ?” cried the 
young wife eagerly. 

“ We are perishing and they leave us to die,” he 
answered in a hollow tone. 

“ No, no, they have pierced the dykes; I know they 
will help us.” 

“ When it is too late. One thing follows another, 
misfortune is heaped on misfortune, and on whom do 
the curses of the starving people fall ? On me, me, me 
alone.” 

“You are acting with the Prince’s commissioner.” 

Peter smiled bitterly, saying : “He took to his bed 
yesterday. Bontius says it is the plague. I, I alone 
bear everything.” 

“We bear it with you,” cried Maria. “ First poverty, 
then hunger, as we promised.” 

“ Better than that. The last grain was baked to- 
day. The bread is exhausted.” 

“ We still have oxen and horses.” 

“We shall come to them day after to-morrow. 
It was determined: Two pounds with the bones to 
every four persons. Bread gone, cows gone, milk gone. 
And what will happen then ? Mothers, infants, sick 
people ! And our Bessie !” 

The burgomaster pressed his hands on his temples 
and groaned aloud. But Maria said : “ Courage, Peter, 
courage. Hold fast to one thing, don’t let one thing go 
— hope.” 

“ Hope, hope,” he answered scornfully. 

“ To hope no longer,” cried Maria, “ means to des- 
pair. To despair means in our case to open the gates, 
to open the gates means — ” 


292 


THE BURGOMASTER'S WIRE. 


“ Who is thinking of opening the gates ? Who talks 
of surrender?” he vehemently interrupted. “We will 
still hold firm, still, still — • There is the portfolio, take it 
to the messenger.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Bessie had eaten a piece of roast pigeon, the first 
morsel for several days, and there was as much rejoicing 
over it in the Van der Werff household, as if some great 
piece of good fortune had befallen the family. Adrian 
ran to the workshops and told the men, Peter went to 
the town-hall with a more upright bearing, and Maria, 
who was obliged to go out, undertook to tell Wilhelm’s 
mother of the good results produced by her son’s gift. 

Tears ran down the old lady’s flabby cheeks at the 
story and, kissing the burgomaster’s wife, she ex- 
claimed : 

“Yes, Wilhelm, Wilhelm! If he were only at home 
now. But I’ll call his father. Dear me, he is probably 
at the town-hall too. Hark, Frau Maria, hark — what’s 
that ?” 

The ringing of bells and firing of cannon had inter- 
rupted her words ; she hastily threw open the window, 
crying : 

“From the Tower of Pancratius! No alarm-bell, 
firing and merry -ringing. Some joyful tidings have 
come. We need them ! Ulrich, Ulrich ! Come back at 
once and bring us the news. Dear Father in Heaven ! 
Merciful God ! Send the relief. If it were only that !” 

The two women waited in great suspense. At last 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


293 


Wilhelm’s brother Ulrich returned, saying that the mes- 
sengers sent to Delft had succeeded in passing the 
enemy’s ranks and brought with them a letter from the 
estates, which the city-clerk had read from the window 
of the town-hall. The representatives of the country 
praised the conduct and endurance of the citizens, and 
informed them that, in spite of the damage done to 
thousands of people, the dykes would be cut. 

In fact, the water was already pouring over the land, 
and the messengers had seen the vessels appointed to 
bring relief. The country surrounding Leyden must 
soon be inundated, and the rising flood would force the 
Spanish army to retreat, “ Better a drowned land than 
a lost land,” was a saying that had been decisive in the 
execution of the violent measure proposed, and those 
who had risked so much might be expected to shrink 
from no sacrifice to save Leyden. 

The two women joyously shook hands with each 
other ; the bells continued to ring merrily, and report 
after report of cannon made the window-panes rattle. 

As twilight approached, Maria turned her steps 
towards home. It was long since her heart had been 
so light. The black tablets on the houses containing 
cases of plague did not look so sorrowful to-day, the 
emaciated faces seemed less pitiful than usual, for to 
them also help was approaching. The faithful endu- 
rance was to be rewarded, the cause of freedom would 
conquer. 

She entered the “ broad street ” with winged steps. 
Thousands of citizens had flocked into it to see, hear, 
and learn what might be hoped, or what still gave cause 
for fear. Musicians had been stationed at the corners 
to play lively airs ; the Beggars’ song mingled with the 


294 THE burgomaster’s wife. 

pipes and trumpets and the cheers of enthusiastic men. 
But there were also throngs of well-dressed citizens and 
women, who loudly and fearlessly mocked at the gay 
music and exulting simpletons, who allowed themselves 
to be cajoled by empty promises. Where was the 
relief? What could the handful of Beggars — which at 
the utmost were all the troops the Prince could bring — 
do against King Philip’s terrible military power, that sur- 
rounded Leyden ? And the inundation of the country ? 
The ground on which the city stood was too high for 
the water ever to reach it. The peasants had been 
injured, without benefiting the citizens. There was 
only one means of escape — to trust to the King’s 
mercy. 

“ What is liberty to us ? ” shouted a brewer, who, 
like all his companions in business, had long since been 
deprived of his grain and forbidden to manufacture any 
fresh beer. “ What will liberty be to us, when we’re cold 
in death ? Let whoever means well go the town-hall, 
and demand a surrender before it is too late.” 

“ Surrender ! The mercy of the King ! ” shouted the 
citizens. 

“ Life comes first, and then the question whether it 
shall be free or under Spanish rule, Calvanistical or 
Popish!” screamed a master- weaver. “I’ll march to 
the town-hall with you.” 

“You are right, good people,” said Burgomaster 
Baersdorp, who, clad in his costly fur-bordered cloak, 
was coming from the town-hall and had heard the last 
speaker’s words. “ But let me set you right. To-day 
the credulous are beginning to hope again, and the 
time for pressing your just desire is ill-chosen. Wait a 
few days and then, if the relief does not appear, urge 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 295 

your views. I’ll speak for you, and with me many a 
good man in the magistracy. We have nothing to ex- 
pect from Valdez, but gentleness and kindness. To rise 
against the King was from the first a wicked deed — to 
fight against famine, the plague and death is sin and 
madness. May God be with you, men ! ” 

“ The burgomaster is sensible,” cried a cloth-dyer. 

“ Van Swieten and Norden think as he does, but 
Meister Peter rules through the Prince’s favor. If the 
Spaniards rescue us, his neck will be in danger, when 
they make their entrance into the city. So no matter 
who dies ; he and his are living on the fat of the land 
and have plenty.” 

“ There goes his wife,” said a master-weaver, point- 
ing to Maria. “How happy she looks ! The leather 
business must be doing well. Holloa — Frau Van der 
Werff! Holloa! Remember me to your husband and 
tell him, his life may be valuable; but ours are not wisps 
of straw.” 

“ Tell him, too,” cried a cattle-dealer, who did not 
yet seem to have been specially injured by the general 
distress, “ tell him oxen can be slaughtered, the more 
the better; but Leyden citizens — ” 

The cattle-dealer did not finish his sentence, for Herr 
Aquanus had seen from the Angulus what was hap- 
pening to the burgomaster’s wife, came out of the tavern 
into the street, and stepped into the midst of the mal- 
contents. 

“ For shame ! ” he cried. “ To assail a respectable 
lady in the street ! Are these Leyden manners ? Give 
me your hand, Frau Maria, and if I hear a single 
reviling word, I’ll call the constables. I know you. 
The gallows Herr Van Bronkhorst had erected for men 


296 


THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE. 


like you, is still standing by the Blue Stone. Which of 
you wants to inaugurate them ? ” 

The men, to whom these words were addressed, were 
not the bravest of mortals, and not a syllable was heard, 
as Aquanus led the young wife into the tavern. The 
landlord’s wife and daughter received her in their own 
rooms, which were separated from those occupied by 
guests of the inn, and begged her to make herself com- 
fortable there until the crowd had dispersed. But 
Maria longed to reach home, and when she said she 
must go, Aquanus offered his company. 

Georg von Domburg was standing in the entry and 
stepped back with a respectful bow, but the innkeeper 
called to him, saying : 

“ There is much to be done to-day, for many a man 
will doubtless indulge himself in a glass of liquor after 
the good news. No offence, Frau Van der Werff, but 
the Junker will escort you home as safely as I — and 
you, Herr von Dornburg— ” 

“ I am at your service,” replied Georg, and went out 
into the street with the young wife. 

For a time both walked side by side in silence, each 
fancying he or she could hear the beating of the other’s 
heart. At last Georg, drawing a long breath, said : 

“ Three long, long months have passed since my 
arrival here. Have I been brave, Maria ?” 

“ Yes, Georg.” 

“ But you cannot imagine what it has cost me to 
fetter this poor heart, stifle my words, and blind my 
eyes. Maria, it must once be said — ” 

“Never, never,” she interrupted in a tone of earnest 
entreaty. “ I know that you have struggled honestly, 
do not rob yourself of the victory now.” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


2 97 


“ Oh ! hear me, Maria, this once hear me.” 

“ What will it avail, if you oppress my soul with 
ardent words ? I must not hear from any man that he 
loves me, and what I must not hear, you must not 
speak.” 

“ Must not?” he asked in a tone of gentle reproach, 
then in a gloomy, bitter mood, continued : “You are 
right, perfectly right. Even speech is denied me. So 
life may run on like a leaden stream, and everything 
that grows and blossoms on its banks remain scentless 
and grey. The golden sunshine has hidden itself behind 
a mist, joy lies fainting in my heart, and all that once 
pleased me has grown stale and charmless. Do you 
recognize the happy youth of former days ?” 

“ Seek cheerfulness again, seek it for my sake.” 

“ Gone, gone,” he murmured sadly. “ You saw me 
in Delft, but you did not know me thoroughly. These 
eyes were like two mirrors of fortune in which every 
object was charmingly transfigured, and they were re- 
warded ; for wherever they looked they met only 
friendly glances. This heart then embraced the whole 
w r orld, and beat so quickly and joyously ! I often did 
not know what to do with myself from sheer mirth and 
vivacity, and it seemed as if I must burst into a thous- 
and pieces like an over-loaded firelock, only instead of 
scattering far and wide, mount straight up to Heaven. 
Those days were so happy, and yet so sad — I felt it ten 
times as much in Delft, when you were kind to me. And 
now, now ? I still have wings, I still might fly, but 
here I creep like a snail — because it is your will.” 

“ It is not my wish,” replied Maria. “ You are dear 
to me, that I may be permitted to confess — and to see 
you thus fills me with grief. But now — if I am dear to 
43 


298 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


you, and I know you care for me — cease to torture me 
so cruelly. You are dear to me. I have said it, and it 
must be spoken, that everything may be clearly under- 
stood between us. You are dear to me, like the beauti- 
ful by-gone days of my youth, like pleasant dreams, 
like a noble song, in which we take delight, and which 
refreshes our souls, whenever we hear or remember it — 
but more you are not, more you can never be. You are 
dear to me, and I wish you to remain so, but that 
you can only do by not breaking the oath you have 
sworn.” 

“ Sworn ?” asked Georg. “ Sworn ?” 

“ Yes, sworn,” interrupted Maria, checking her steps. 
“ On Peter’s breast, on the morning of his birthday — 
after the singing. You remember it well. At the time 
you took a solemn vow ; I know it, know it no less 
surely, than that I myself swore faith to my husband at 
the altar. If you can give me the lie, do so.” 

Georg shook his head, and answered with increas- 
ing warmth : 

“You read my soul. Our hearts know each other 
like two faithful friends, as the earth knows her moon, 
the moon her earth. What is one without the other ? 
Why must they be separated ? Did you ever walk along 
a forest path ? The tracks of two wheels run side by 
side and never touch. The axle holds them asunder, as 
our oath parts us.” 

“ Say rather — our honor.” 

“ As our honor parts us. But often in the woods we 
find a place where the road ends in a field or hill, and 
there the tracks cross and intersect each other, and 
in this hour I feel that my path has come to an end. I 
can go no farther, I cannot, or the horses will plunge 


THE BURGOMASTERS WIFE. 299 

into the thicket and the vehicle be shattered on the 
roots and stones.” 

“ And honor with it. Not a word more. Let us 
walk faster. See the lights in the windows. Everyone 
wants to show that he rejoices in the good news. Our 
house mustn’t remain dark either.” 

“ Don’t hurry so. Barbara will attend to it, and how 
soon we must part ! Yet you said that I was dear to 
you.” 

“ Don’t torture me,” cried the young wife, with pa- 
thetic entreaty. 

“ I will not torture you, Maria, but you must hear 
me. I was in earnest, terrible earnest in the mute vow 
I swore, and have sought to release myself from it by 
death. You have heard how I rushed like a madman 
among the Spaniards, at the storming of the Boschhuizen 
fortification in July. Your bow, the blue bow from 
Delft, the knot of ribbons the color of the sky, fluttered 
on my left shoulder as I dashed upon swords and 
lances. I was not to die, and came out of the confu- 
sion uninjured. Oh ! Maria, for the sake of this oath I 
have suffered unequalled torments. Release me from 
it, Maria, let me once, only once, freely confess — ” 

“ Stop, Georg, stop,” pleaded the young wife. “ I 
will not, must not hear you — neither to-day, nor to- 
morrow, never, never, to all eternity ! ” 

“ Once, only once, I will, I must say to you, that I 
love you, that life and happiness, peace and honor — ” 

“ Not one word more, Junker von Dornburg. There 
is our house. You are our guest, and if you address 
a single word like the last ones to your friend’s 
wife — ” 

“ Maria, Maria — oh, don’t touch the knocker. 


3 °° 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


How can you so unfeelingly /destroy the whole hap. 
piness of a human being — ” 

The door had opened, and the burgomaster’s wife 
crossed the threshold. Georg stood opposite to her, 
held out his hand as if beseeching aid, and murmured 
in a hollow tone : 

“ Cast forth to death and despair ! Maria, Maria, 
why do you treat me thus ?” 

She laid her right hand in his, saying : 

“ That we may remain worthy of each other, 
Georg.” 

She forcibly withdrew her icy hand and entered the 
house ; but he wandered for hours through the lighted 
streets like a drunken man, and at last threw himself, 
with a burning brain, upon his couch. A small volume, 
lightly stitched together, lay on a little table beside the 
bed. He seized it, and with trembling fingers wrote 
on its pages. The pencil often paused, and he frequently 
drew a long breath and gazed with dilated eyes into 
vacancy. At last he threw the book aside and watched 
anxiously for the morning. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Just before sunrise Georg sprang from his couch, 
drew out his knapsack, and filled it with his few posses- 
sions ; but this time the little book found no place with 
the other articles. 

The musician Wilhelm also entered the court-yard at 
a very early hour, just as the first workmen were going 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


3 o I 


to the shops. The Junker saw him coming, and met 
him at the door. 

The artist’s face revealed few traces of the want he 
had endured, but his whole frame was trembling with 
excitement and his face changed color every moment, 
as he instantly, and in the utmost haste, told Georg the 
purpose of his early visit. 

Shortly after the arrival of the city messengers, a Span- 
ish envoy had brought Burgomaster Van der Werfif a 
letter written by Junker Nicolas Matanesse, containing 
nothing but the tidings, that Henrica’s sister had reached 
Leyderdorp with Belotti and found shelter in the elder 
Baron Matanesse’s farm-house. She was very ill, and 
longed to see her sister. The burgomaster had given this 
letter to the young lady, and Henrica hastened to the 
musician without delay, to entreat him to help her es- 
cape from the city and guide her to the Spanish lines. 
Wilhelm was undergoing a severe struggle. No sacrifice 
seemed too great to see Anna again, and what the mes- 
senger had accomplished, he too might succeed in 
doing. But ought he to aid the flight of the young girl 
detained as hostage by the council, deceive the sentinels 
at the gate, desert his post ? 

Since Henrica’s request that Georg would escort 
her sister from Lugano to Holland, the young man 
had known everything that concerned the latter, and 
was also aware of the state of the musician’s heart. 

“ I must, and yet I ought not,” cried Wilhelm. “ I 
have passed a terrible night; imagine yourself in my 
place, in the young lady’s.” 

“ Get a leave of absence until to-morrow,” said 
Georg resolutely. “ When it grows dark, I’ll accompany 
Henrica with you. She must swear to return to the city 


302 


THE burgomaster’s wife. 


in case of a surrender. As for me, I am no longer 
bound by any oath to serve the English flag. A month 
ago we received permission to enter the service of the 
Netherlands. It will only cost me a word with Captain 
Van der Laen, to be my own master.” 

“ Thanks, thanks ; but the young lady forbade me 
to ask your assistance.” 

“ Folly, I shall go with you, and when our goal is 
reached, fight my way through to the Beggars. Our de- 
parture will not trouble the council, for, when Henrica 
and I are outside, there will be two eaters less in Ley- 
den. The sky is grey; I hope we shall have a dark 
night. Captain Van Duivenvoorde commands the 
guard at the Hohenort Gate. He knows us both, and 
will let us pass. I’ll speak to him. Is the farm-house 
far inside the village ?” 

“No, outside on the road to Leyden.” 

“ Well then, we’ll meet at Aquanus’s tavern at four 
o’clock.” 

“ But the young lady — ” 

“ It will be time enough, if she learns at the gate 
who is to accompany her.” 

When Georg came to the tavern at the appointed 
hour, he learned that Henrica had received another let- 
ter from Nicolas. It had been given to the outposts 
by the Junker himself, and contained only the words: 
“Until midnight, the Spanish watch-word is ‘ Lepanto? 
Your father shall know to-day, that Anna is here.” 

After the departure from the Hohenort Gate had 
been fixed for nine o’clock in the evening, Georg went 
to Captain Van der Laen and the commandant Van der 
Does, received from the former the discharge he re- 
quested, and from Janus a letter to his friend, Admiral 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 303 

Boisot. When he informed his men, that he intended to 
leave the city and make his way to the Beggars, they 
declared they would follow, and live or die with him. It 
was with difficulty that he succeeded in restraining them. 
Before the town-hall he slackened his pace. The burgo- 
master was always to be found there at this hour. 
Should he quit the city without taking leave of him ? 
No, no ! And yet — since yesterday he had forfeited the 
right to look frankly into his eyes. He was afraid to 
meet him, it seemed as if he were completely estranged 
from him. So Georg rushed past the town-hall, and 
said defiantly : “ Even if I leave him without a fare- 

well, I owe him nothing; for I must pay for his kind- 
ness with cruel suffering, perhaps death. Maria loved 
me first, and what she is, and was, and ever will be to 
me, she shall know before I go.” 

He returned to his room at twilight, asked the man- 
servant to carry his knapsack to Captain Van Duiven- 
voorde at the Hohenort Gate, and then went, with his 
little book in his doublet, to the main building to take 
leave of Maria. He ascended the staircase slowly and 
paused in the upper entry. 

The beating of his heart almost stopped his breath. 
He did not know at which door to knock, and a tortur- 
ing dread overpowered him, so that he stood for several 
minutes as if paralyzed. Then he summoned up his 
courage, shook himself, and muttered : “ Have I be- 

come a coward !” With these words he opened the door 
leading into the dining-room and entered. Adrian was 
sitting at the empty table, beside a burning torch, with 
some books. Georg asked for his mother. 

“ She is probably spinning in her room,” replied the 
boy. 


3^4 the burgomaster’s wife. 

“ Call her, I have something important to tell her.” 

Adrian went away, returning with the answer that the 
Junker might wait in his father’s study. 

“ Where is Barbara ?” asked Georg. 

“ With Bessie.” 

The German nodded, and while pacing up and 
down beside the dining-room, thought , “ I can’t go so. 
It must come from the heart ; once, once more I will 
hear her say, that she loves me, I will — I will — Let it 
be dishonorable, let it be worthy of execration, I will 
atone for it ; I will atone for it with my life !” 

While Georg was pacing up and down the room, 
Adrian gathered his books together, saying : “ B-r-r-r, 

Junker, how you look to-day ! One might be afraid of 
you. Mother is in there already. The tinder-box is 
rattling ; she is probably lighting the lamp.” 

“ Are you busy ?” asked Georg. 

“ I’ve finished.” 

“ Then run over to Wilhelm Corneliussohn and tell 
him it is settled : we’ll meet at nine, punctually at nine.” 

“ At Aquanus’s tavern ?” asked the boy. 

“ No, no, he knows ; make haste, my lad.” 

Adrian was going, but Georg beckoned to him, and 
said in a low tone : “ Can you be silent ?” 

“ As a fried sole.” 

“ I shall slip out of the city to-day, and perhaps may 
never return.” 

“ You, Junker ? To-day ?” asked the boy. 

“ Yes, dear lad. Come here, give me a farewell 
kiss. You must keep this little ring to remember me.” 

The boy submitted to the kiss, put the ring on his 
finger, and said with tearful eyes: “ Are you in earnest? 
Yes, the famine ! God knows I’d run after you, if it 


THE BURGOMASTER'S- WIFE. 305 

were not for Bessie and mother. When will you come 
back again ?” 

“ Who knows, my lad ! Remember me kindly, do 
you bear ? Kindly ! And now run.” 

Adrian rushed down the stairs, and a few minutes 
after the Junker was standing in Peter’s study, face to 
face with Maria. The shutters were closed, and the 
sconce on the table had two lighted candles. 

“ Thanks, a thousand thanks for coming,” said 
Georg. “You pronounced my sentence yesterday, and 
to-day — ” 

“ I know what brings you to me,” she answered gen- 
tly. “ Henrica has bidden me farewell, and I must not 
keep her. She doesn’t wish to have you accompany 
her, but Meister Wilhelm betrayed the secret to me. 
You have come to say farewell.” 

“ Yes, Maria, farewell forever.” 

“ If it is God’s will, we shall see each other again. I 
know what is driving you away from here. You are 
good and noble, Georg, and if there is one thing that 
lightens the parting, it is this : We can now think of 
each other without sorrow and anger. You will not for- 
get us, and — you know that the remembrance of you 
will be cherished here by old and young — in the hearts 
of all—” 

“ And in yours also, Maria ?” 

“ In mine also.” 

“ Hold it firmly. And when the storm has blown 
out of your path the poor dust, which to-day lives and 
breathes, loves and despairs, grant it a place in your 
memory.” 

Maria shuddered, for deep despair looked forth with 
a sullen glow from the eyes that met hers. Seized with 


306 the burgomaster’s wife. 

an anxious foreboding, she exclaimed : “ What are you 
thinking of, Georg ? for Christ’s sake ! tell me what is in 
your mind.” 

“ Nothing wrong, Maria, nothing wrong. We birds 
now sing differently. Whoever can saunter, with luke- 
warm blood and lukewarm pleasures, from one decade 
to another in peace and honor, is fortunate. My blood 
flows in a swifter course, and what my eager soul has 
once clasped with its polyp arms, it will never release 
until the death-hour comes. I am going, never to re- 
turn ; but I shall take you and my love with me to bat- 
tle, to the grave. — I go, I go — ” 

“ Not so, Georg, you must not part from me thus.” 

“ Then cry : ‘ Stay !’ Then say : ‘ I am here and pity 
you !’ But don’t expect the miserable wretch, whom you 
have blinded, to open his eyes, behold and enjoy the 
beauties of the world. There you stand, trembling and 
shaking, without a word for him who loves you, for him 
— him — ” 

The youth’s voice faltered with emotion and sighing 
heavily, he pressed his hand to his brow. Then he 
seemed to recollect himself and continued in a low, sad 
tone: “Here I stand, to tell you for the last time the 
state of my heart. You should hear sweet words, but 
grief and pain will pour bitter drops into everything I 
say. I have uttered in the language of poetry, when my 
heart impelled me, that for which dry prose possesses no 
power of expression. Read these pages, Maria, and if 
they wake an echo in your soul, oh! treasure it. The 
honeysuckle in your garden needs a support, that it may 
grow and put forth flowers; let these poor songs be the 
espalier around which your memory of the absent one 
can twine its tendrils and cling lovingly. Read, oh! 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


3°7 


read, and then say once more: ‘You are dear to me/ or 
send me from you.” 

“Give it to me,” said Maria, opening the volume 
with a throbbing heart. 

He stepped back from her, but his breath came 
quickly and his eyes followed hers while she was reading. 

She began with the last poem but one. It had been 
written just after Georg’s return the day before, and ran 
as follows: 


"Joyously they march along, 

Lights are flashing through the panes, 
In the streets a busy throng 
Curiosity enchains. 

Oh ! the merry festal night; 

Would that it might last for aye ! 

For aye! Alas! Love, splendor, light, 
All, all have passed away.” 


The last lines Georg had written with a rapid pen 
the night before. In them he bewailed his hard fate. 
She must hear him once, then he would sing her a peer- 
less song. Maria had followed the first verses silently 
with her eyes, but now her lips began to move and in a 
low, rapid tone, but audibly she read : 


" Sometimes it echoes like the thunder’s peal, 

Then soft and low through the May night doth steal; 
Sometimes, on joyous wing, to Heaven it soars, 
Sometimes, like Philomel, its woes deplores. 

For, oh! this a song that ne’er can die, 

It seeks the heart of all humanity. 

In the deep cavern and the darksome lair, 

The sea of ether o’er the realm of air, 

In every nook my song shall still be heard, 

And all creation, with sad yearning stirred, 

United in a full, exultant choir, 

Pray thee to grant the singer’s fond desire. 


308 the burgomaster’s wife. 

E’en when the ivy o’er my grave hath grown, 

Still will ring on each sweet, enchanting tone, 

Through the whole world and every earthly zone, 
Resounding on in aeons yet to come.” 

Maria read on, her heart beating more and more 
violently, her breath coming quicker and quicker, and 
when she had reached the last verse, tears burst from 
her eyes, and she raised the book with both hands to 
hurl it from her and throw her arms around the writer’s 
neck. 

He had been standing opposite to her, as if spell- 
bound, listening blissfully to the lofty flight of his own 
words. Trembling with passionate emotion, he yet re- 
strained himself until she had raised her eyes from his 
lines and lifted the book, then his power of resistance 
flew to the winds and, fairly beside himself, he exclaimed : 
“Maria, my sweet wife!” 

“Wife?” echoed in her breast like a cry of warning, 
and it seemed as if an icy hand clutched her heart. 
The intoxication passed away, and as she saw him 
standing before her with out-stretched arms and sparkling 
eyes, she shrank back, a feeling of intense loathing of 
him and her own weakness seized upon her and, instead 
of throwing the book aside and rushing to meet him, she 
tore it in halves, saying proudly: “ Here are your verses, 
Junker Von Dornburg; take them with you.” Then, 
maintaining her dignity by a strong effort, she continued 
in a lower, more gentle tone, “I shairremember you 
without this book. We have both dreamed; let us now 
wake. Farewell ! I will pray that God may guard you. 
Give me your hand, Georg, and when you return, we 
will bid you welcome to our house as a friend.” 

With these words Maria turned away from the 


THE BURGOMASTER’^ WIFE. 


3°9 


Junker and only nodded silently, when he exclaimed: 
“Past! All past!” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Georg descended the stairs in a state of bewilder- 
ment. Both halves of the book, in which ever since the 
wedding at Delft he had written a succession of verses 
to Maria, lay in his hand. 

The light of the kitchen-fire streamed into the entry. 
He followed it, and before answering Barbara’s kind 
greeting, went to the hearth and flung into the fire the 
sheets, which contained the pure, sweet fragrance of a 
beautiful flower of youth. 

“Oho! Junker !” cried the widow. “A quick fire 
doesn’t suit every kind of food. What is burning there ?” 

“Foolish paper!” he answered. “Have no fear. 
At the utmost it might weep and put out the flames. It 
will be ashes directly. There go the sparks, flying in 
regular rows through the black, charred pages. How 
pretty it looks ! They appear, leap forth and vanish — 
like a funeral procession with torches in a pitch-dark 
night. Good-night, poor children — good-night, dear 
songs ! Look, Frau Barbara ! They are rolling them- 
selves up tightly, convulsively, as if it hurt them to 
burn.” 

“ What sort of talk is that ? ” replied Barbara, thrust- 
ing the charred book deeper into the fire with the tongs. 
Then pointing to her own forehead, she continued : 
“ One often feels anxious about you. High-sounding 
words such as we find in the Psalms, are not meant for 


3io 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


every-day life and our kitchen. If you were my own 
son, you’d often have something to listen to. People 
who travel at a steady pace reach their goal soonest.” 

“ That’s good advice for a journey,” replied Georg, 
holding out his hand to the widow. “ Farewell, dear 
mother. I can’t bear it here any longer. In half an 
hour I shall turn my back on this good city.” 

“Go then — just as you choose — Or is the young 
lady taking you in tow? Nobleman’s son and noble- 
man’s daughter! Like to like — Yet, no; there has 
been nothing between you. Her heart is good, but I 
should wish you another wife than that Popish Every- 
day-different.” 

“ So Henrica has told you — ” 

“ She has just gone. Dear me — she has her rela- 
tives outside; and we — it’s hard to divide a plum into 
twelve pieces. I said farewell to her cheerfully; but 
you, Georg, you — ” 

“ I shall take her out of the city, and then — you 
won’t blame me for it — then I shall make my way 
through to the Beggars.” 

“ The Beggars ! That’s a different matter, that’s 
right. You’ll be in your proper place there ! Cheer 
up, Junker, and go forth boldly ? Give me your hand, 
and if you meet my boy — he commands a ship of his 
own. — Dear me, I remember something.. You can 
wait a moment longer. Come here, Trautchen. The 
woollen stockings I knit for him are up in the painted 
chest. Make haste and fetch them. He may need 
them on the water in the damp autumn weather. 
You’ll take them with you ? ” 

“Willingly, most willingly; and now let me thank 
you for all your kindness. You have been like an own 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 3It 

mother to me.” Georg clasped the widow’s hand, and 
neither attempted to conceal how dear each had become 
to the other and how hard it was to part. Trautchen 
had given Barbara the stockings, and many tears fell 
upon them, while the widow was bidding the Junker 
farewell. When she noticed they were actually wet, she 
waved them in the air and handed them to the young 
man. 

The night was dark but still, even sultry. The trav- 
ellers were received at the Hohenort Gate by Captain 
Van Duivenvoorde, preceded by an old sergeant, car- 
rying a lantern, who opened the gate. The captain 
embraced his brave, beloved comrade, Dornburg; a few 
farewell words and god-speeds echoed softly from the 
fortification walls, and the trio stepped forth into the 
open country. 

For a time they walked silently through the dark- 
ness. Wilhelm knew the way and strode in front of 
Henrica; the Junker kept close at her side. 

All was still, except from time to time they heard a 
word of command from the walls, the striking of a clock, 
or the barking of a dog. 

Henrica had recognized Georg by the light of the 
lantern, and when Wilhelm stopped to ascertain whether 
there was any water in the ditch over which he intended 
to guide his companions, she said, under her breath: 

“I did not expect your escort, Junker.” 

“ I know it, but I, too, desired to leave the city.” 

“And wish to avail yourself of our knowledge of the 
watchword. Then stay with us.” 

“Until I know you are safe, Fraulein.” 

“The walls of Leyden already lie between you and 
the peril from which you fly.” 


312 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


“I don’t understand you.” 

“ So much the better.” 

Wilhelm turned and, in a muffled voice, requested 
his companions to keep silence. They now walked 
noiselessly on, until just outside the camp they reached 
the broad road around which they had made a circuit. 

A Spanish sentinel challenged them. 

“ Lepanto /” was the answer, and they passed on 
through the camp unmolested. A coach drawn by four- 
horses, a mere box hung between two tiny fore-wheels 
and a pair of gigantic hind-wheels, drove slowly past 
them. It was conveying Magdalena Moons, the daugh- 
ter of an aristocratic Holland family, distinguished 
among the magistracy, back to the Hague from a visit 
to her lover and future husband, Valdez. No one no- 
ticed Henrica, for there were plenty of women in the 
camp. Several poorly-clad ones sat before the tents, 
mending the soldiers’ clothes. Some gaily-bedizened 
wenches were drinking wine and throwing dice with 
their male companions in front of an officer’s tent. A 
brighter light glowed from behind the general’s quarters, 
where, under a sort of shed, several confessionals and an 
altar had been erected. Upon this altar candles were 
burning, and over it hung a silver lamp; a dark, motion- 
less stream pressed towards it; Castilian soldiers, among 
whom individuals could be recognized only when the 
candle-light flashed upon a helmet or coat of mail. 

The loud singing of carousing German mercenaries, 
the neighing and stamping of the horses, and the laugh- 
ter of the officers and girls, drowned the low chanting 
of the priests and the murmur of the penitents, but the 
shrill sounding of the bell calling to mass from time to 
time pierced, with its swift vibrations, through the noise 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


3*3 

of the camp. Just outside the village the watch-word 
was again used, and they reached the first house unmo- 
lested. 

“ Here we are,” said Wilhelm, with a sigh of relief. 
“ Profit by the darkness, Junker, and keep on till you 
have the Spaniards behind you.” 

“ No, my friend ; you will remain here. I wish to 
share your danger. I shall return with you to Leyden 
and from thence try to reach Delft; meantime I’ll keep 
watch and give you warning, if necessary.” 

“ Let us bid each other farewell now, Georg ; hours 
may pass before I return.” 

“ I have time, a horrible amount of time. I’ll wait. 
There goes the door.” 

The Junker grasped his sword, but soon removed 
his hand from the hilt, for it was Belotti, who came out 
and greeted the signorina. 

Henrica followed him into the house and there 
talked with him in a low tone, until Georg called her, 
saying : 

“ Fraulein Van Hoogstraten, may I ask for a word 
of farewell ?” 

“ Farewell, Herr von Dornburg!” she answered dis- 
tantly, but advanced a step towards him. 

Georg had also approached, and now held out his 
hand. She hesitated a moment, then placed hers m it, 
and said so softly, that only he could hear : 

“ Do you love Maria ?” 

“ So I am to confess ?” 

“ Don’t refuse my last request, as you did the first. 
If you can be generous, answer me fearlessly. I’ll not 
betray your secret to any one. Do you love Frau Van 
der Werff ?” 


43 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIEE. 


3*4 


“ Yes, Fraulein.” 

Henrica drew along breath, then continued: “ And 
now you are rushing out into the world to forget 
her ?” 

“ No, Fraulein.” 

“ Then tell me why you have fled from Leyden ?” 

“ To find an end that becomes a soldier.” 

Henrica advanced close to his side, exclaiming so 
scornfully, that it cut Georg to the heart : 

“ So it has grasped you too ! It seizes all : Knights, 
maidens, wives and widows; not one is spared. Never- 
ending sorrow! Farewell, Georg ! We can laugh at or 
pity each other, just as we choose. A heart pierced 
with seven swords: what an exquisite picture! Let us 
wear blood-red knots of ribbon, instead of green and 
blue ones. Give me your hand once more, now fare- 
well.” 

Henrica beckoned to the musician and both followed 
Belotti up the steep, narrow stairs. Wilhelm remained 
behind in a little room, adjoining a second one, where 
a beautiful boy, about three years old, was being tended 
by an Italian woman. In a third chamber, which like 
all the other rooms in the farm-house, was so low that a 
tall man could scarcely stand erect, Henrica’s sister lay 
on a wide bedstead, over which a screen, supported by 
four columns, spread like a canopy. Links dimly 
lighted the long narrow room. The reddish-yellow rays 
of their broad flames were darkened by the canopy, and 
scarcely revealed the invalid’s face. 

Henrica had given the Italian woman and the child 
in the second room but a hasty greeting, and now im- 
petuously pressed forward into the third, rushed to the 
bed, threw herself on her knees, clasped her arms pas- 


fttE burgomaster's wife. 


3i$ 

sionately around her sister, and covered her face with 
glowing kisses. 

She said nothing but “Anna,” and the sick woman 
found no other word than “ Henrica.” Minutes elapsed, 
then the young girl started up, seized one of the torches 
and cast its light on her regained sister’s face. How 
pale, how emaciated it looked ! But it was still beauti- 
ful, still the same as before. Strangely-blended emo- 
tions of joy and grief took possession of Henrica’s soul. 
Her cold hard feelings grew warm and melted, and in 
this hour the comfort of tears, of which she had been so 
long deprived, once more became hers. 

Gradually the flood tide of emotion began to ebb, 
and the confusion of loving exclamations and incohe- 
rent words gained some order and separated into 
question and answer. When Anna learned that the 
musician had accompanied her sister, she wished to see 
him, and when he entered, held out both hands, ex- 
claiming : 

“ Meister, Meister, in what a condition you find me 
again ! Henrica, this is the best of men ; the only un- 
selfish friend I have found on earth.” 

The succeeding hours were full of sorrowful agita- 
tion. 

Belotti and the old Italian woman often undertook 
to speak for the invalid, and gradually the image of a 
basely-destroyed life, that had been Vorthy of a better 
fate, appeared before Henrica and Wilhelm. Fear, 
anxiety and torturing doubt had from the first saddened 
Anna’s existence with the unprincipled adventurer and 
gambler, who had succeeded in beguiling her young, 
inexperienced heart. A short period of intoxication 
was folio wed by an unexampled awakening. She 


31 6 the burgomaster’s wife. 

was clasping her first child to her breast, when the 
unprecedented outrage occurred — Don Luis demanded 
that she should move with him into the house of a 
notorious Marchesa, in whose ill-famed gambling-rooms 
be had spent his evenings and nights for months. She 
indignantly refused, but he coldly and threateningly 
persisted in having his will. Then the Hoogstraten 
blood asserted itself, and without a word of farewell she 
fled with her child to Lugano. There the boy was re- 
ceived by his mother’s former waiting-maid, while she 
herself went to Rome, not as an adventuress, but with a 
fixed, praiseworthy object in view. She intended to fully 
perfect her musical talents in the new schools of Pales- 
trina and Nan ini, and thus obtain the ability, by means 
of her art, to support her child independently of his 
father and hers. She risked much, but very definite 
hopes hovered before her eyes, for a distinguished pre- 
late and lover of music, to whom she had letters of in- 
troduction from Brussels, and who knew her voice, had 
promised that after her return from her musical studies he 
would give her the place of singing-mistress to a young 
girl of noble birth, who had been educated in a convent 
at Milan. She was under his guardianship, and the 
worthy man took care to provide Anna, before her de- 
parture, with letters to his friends in the eternal city. 

Her hasty fligjit from Rome had been caused by the 
news, that Don Luis had found and abducted his son. 
She could not lose her child, and when she did not find 
the boy in Milan, followed and at last discovered him 
in Naples. There d’ Avila restored the child, after she 
had declared her willingness to make over to him 
the income she still received from her aunt. The long 
journey, so full of excitement and fatigue, exhausted her 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


317 

strength, and she returned to Milan feeble and broken in 
health. 

Her patron had been anxious to keep the place of 
singing-mistress open for her, but she could only fulfil for 
a short time the duties to which the superior of the convent 
kindly summoned her, for her sickness was increasing and 
a terrible cough spoiled her voice. She now returned to 
Lugano, and there sought to compensate her poor honest 
friend by the sale of her ornaments, but the time soon came 
when the generous artist was forced to submit to be 
supported by the charity of a servant. Until the last 
six months she had not suffered actual want, but when 
her maid’s husband died, anxiety about the means of 
procuring daily bread arose, and now maternal love 
broke down Anna’s pride : she wrote to her father as a 
repentant daughter, bowed down by misfortune, but 
received no reply. At last, reduced to starvation with 
her child, she undertook the hardest possible task, and 
besought the man, of whom she could only think with 
contempt and loathing, not to let his son grow up like a 
beggar’s child. The letter, which contained this cry of 
distress, had reached Don Luis just before his death. 
No help was to come to her from him. But Belotti ap- 
peared, and now she was once more at home, her friend 
and sister were standing beside her bed, and Henrica 
encouraged her to hope for her father’s forgiveness. 

It was past midnight, yet Georg still awaited his 
friend’s return. The noise and bustle of the camp 
began to die away and the lantern, which at first had 
but feebly lighted the spacious lower-room of the farm- 
house, burned still more dimly. The German shared 
this apartment with agricultural implements, harnesses, 
and many kinds of grain and vegetables heaped in piles 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


318 

against the walls, but he lacked inclination to cast even 
a glance at his motley surroundings. There was nothing 
pleasant to him in the present or future. He felt 
humiliated, guilty, weary of life. His self-respect was 
trampled under foot, love and happiness were forfeited, 
there was naught before him save a colorless, charmless 
future, full of bitterness and mental anguish. Nothing 
seemed desirable save a speedy death. At times the 
fair image of his home rose before his memory — but it 
vanished as soon as he recalled the burgomaster’s 
dignified figure, his own miserable weakness and the 
repulse he had experienced. He was full of fierce in- 
dignation against himself, and longed with passionate 
impatience for the clash of swords and roar of cannon, 
the savage struggle man to man. 

Time passed without his perceiving it, but a tortur- 
ing desire for food began to torment the starving man. 
There were plenty of turnips piled against the wall, and 
he eat one after another, until he experienced the feeling 
of satiety he had so long lacked. Then he sat down on 
a kneading-trough and considered how he could best 
get to the Beggars. He did not know his way, but woe 
betide those who ventured to oppose him. His arm and 
sword were good, and there were Spaniards enough at 
hand whom he could make feel the weight of both. His 
impatience began to rise, and it seemed like a welcome 
diversion, when he heard steps approaching and a man’s 
figure entered the house. He had stationed himself by 
the wall with his sword between his folded arms, and 
now shouted a loud “halt” to the new-comer. 

The latter instantly drew his sword, and when Georg 
imperiously demanded what he wanted, replied in a boy- 
ish voice, but a proud, resolute tone: 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


3 1 9 

“I ask you that question! I am in my father’s 
house.” 

“Indeed!” replied the German smiling, for he had 
now recognized the speaker’s figure by the dim light. 
“Put up your sword. If you are young MatanesseVan 
Wibisma, you have nothing to fear from me.” 

“I am. But what are you doing on our premises at 
night, sword in hand ?” 

“ I’m warming the wall to my own satisfaction, or, 
if you want to know the truth, mounting guard.” 

“ In our house?” 

“Yes, Junker. There is some one up-stairs with 
your cousins, who wouldn’t like to be surprised by the 
Spaniards. Go up. I know from Captain Van Duiven- 
voorde what a gallant young fellow you are.” 

“From Herr von Warmond?” asked Nicolas eager- 
ly. “Tell me! what brings you here, and who are 
you?” 

“One who is fighting for your liberty, a German, 
Georg von Dornburg.” 

“Oh, wait here, I entreat you. I’ll come back 
directly. Do you know whether Fraulein Van Hoog- 
straten — ” 

“Up there,” replied Georg, pointing towards the 
ceiling. 

Nicolas sprang up the stairs in two or three bounds, 
called his cousin, and hastily told her that her father 
had had a severe fall from his horse while hunting, and 
was lying dangerously ill. When Nicolas spoke of 
Anna he had at first burst into a furious passion, but 
afterwards voluntarily requested him to tell him about 
her, and attempted to leave his bed to accompany him. 
He succeeded in doing so, but fell back fainting. When 


3 2 ° 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


his father came early the next morning, she might tell 
him that he, Nicolas, begged his forgiveness ; he was 
about to do what he believed to be his duty. 

He evaded Henrica’s questions, and merely hastily 
enquired about Anna’s health and the Leyden citizen, 
whom Georg had mentioned. 

When he heard the name of the musician Wilhelm, 
he begged her to warn him to depart in good time, 
and if possible in hi§ company, then bade her a hurried 
farewell and ran down-stairs. 

Wilhelm soon followed. Henrica accompanied him 
to the stairs to see Georg once more, but as soon as 
she heard his voice, turned defiantly away and went 
back to her sister. 

The musician found Junker von Dornburg engaged 
in an eager conversation with Nicolas. 

“ No, no, my boy,” said the German cordially, “my 
way cannot be yours.” 

“ I am seventeen years old.” 

“ That’s not it; you’ve just confronted me bravely, 
and you have a man’s strength of will — but life ought 
still to bear flowers for you, if such is God’s will — you 
are going forth to fight sword-in-hand to win a worthy 
destiny of peace and prosperity, for yourself and your 
native land, in freedom — but I, I — give me your hand 
and promise — ” 

“ My hand ? There it is ; but I must refuse the 
promise. With or without you — I shall go to the 
Beggars I ” 

Georg gazed at the brave boy in delight, and asked 
gently : 

“ Is your mother living ?” 

“ No.” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 32 1 

“ Then come. We shall probably both find what 
we seek with the Beggars.” 

Nicolas clasped the hand Georg offered, but Wil- 
helm approached the Junker, saying: 

“ I expected this from you, after what I saw at St. 
Peter’s church and Quatgelat’s tavern.” 

“ You first opened my eyes,” replied Nicolas. “ Now 
come, we’ll go directly through the camp; they all 
know me.” 

In the road the boy pressed close to Georg, and in 
answer to his remark that he would be in a hard posi- 
tion towards his father, replied : 

“ I know it, and it causes me such pain — such pain. 
— But I can’t help it. I won’t suffer the word ‘traitor’ 
to cling to our name.” 

“Your cousin Matanesse, Herr von Rivi&re, is also 
devoted to the good cause.” 

“ But my father thinks differently. He has the 
courage to expect good deeds from the Spaniards. 
From the Spaniards ! I’ve learned to know them during 
the last few months. A brave lad from Leyden, you 
knew him probably by his nickname, Lowing, which he 
really deserved, was captured by them in fair fight, and 
then — it makes me shudder even now when I think of 
it — they hung him up head downward, and tortured him 
to death. I was present, and not one word of theirs es- 
caped my ears. Such ought to be the fate of all Hol- 
land, country and people, that was what they wanted. 
And remarks like these can be heard every day. No 
abuse of us is too bad for them, and the King thinks 
like his soldiers. Let some one else endure to be the 
slave of a master, who tortures and despises us ! My 
holy religion is eternal and indestructible. Even if it is 


322 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


hateful to many of the Beggars, that shall not trouble 
me — if only they will help break the Spanish chains.” 

Amid such conversation they walked through the 
Castilian camp, where all lay buried in sleep. Then 
they reached that of the German troops, and here gay 
carousing was going on under many a tent. At the end 
of the encampment a sutler and his wife were collecting 
together the wares that remained unsold. 

Wilhelm had walked silently behind the other two, 
for his heart was deeply stirred, joy and sorrow were 
striving for the mastery. He felt intoxicated with lofty, 
pure emotions, but suddenly checked his steps before the 
sutler’s stand and pointed to the pastry gradually dis- 
appearing in a chest. 

Hunger had become a serious, nay only too serious 
and mighty power, in the city beyond, and it was not at 
all surprising that Wilhelm approached the venders, and 
with sparkling eyes bought their last ham and as much 
bread as they had left. 

Nicolas laughed at the bundle he carried under his 
arm, but Georg said : 

“ You haven’t yet looked want in the face, Junker. 
This bread is a remedy for the most terrible disease.” 

At the Hohenort Gate Georg ordered Captain von 
Warmond to be waked, and introduced Nicolas to him 
as a future Beggar. The captain congratulated the boy 
and offered him money to supply himself in Delft with 
whatever he needed, and defray his expenses during the 
first few weeks ; but Nicolas rejected his wealthy friend’s 
offer, for a purse filled with gold coins hung at his girdle. 
A jeweller in the Hague had given them to him yester- 
day in payment for Fraulein Van Hoogstraten’s emerald 
ring. 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 323 

Nicolas showed the captain his treasure, and then 
exclaimed : 

“ Now forward, Junker von Dornburg, I know 
where we shall find them; and you, Captain Van Dui- 
venvoorde, tell the burgomaster and Janus Dousa what 
has become of me.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

A week had elapsed since Henrica’s flight, and 
with it a series of days of severe privation. Maria 
knew from the musician, that young Matanesse had 
accompanied Georg, and that the latter was on his way 
to the Beggars. This was the right plan. The bubbling 
brook belonged to the wild, rushing, mighty river. She 
wished him happiness, life and pleasure ; but — strange — 
since the hour that she tore his verses, the remem- 
brance of him had receeded as far as in the days 
before the approach of the Spaniards. Nay, after her 
hard-won conquest of herself and his departure, a rare 
sense of happiness, amid all her cares and troubles, had 
taken possession of the young wife’s heart. She had 
been cruel to herself, and the inner light of the clear 
diamond first gleams forth with the right brilliancy, after 
it has endured the torture of polishing. She now felt 
with joyous gratitude, that she could look Peter frankly 
in the eye, grant him love, and ask love in return. He 
scarcely seemed to notice her and her management un- 
der the burden of his cares, but she felt, that many things 
she said and could do for him pleased him. The young 
wife did not suffer specially from the long famine, while 


324 


THE BURGOMASTER S WIFE. 


it caused Barbara pain and unstrung her vigorous frame. 
Amid so much suffering, she often sunk into despair be- 
fore the cold hearth and empty pots, and no longer 
thought it worth while to plait her large cap and ruffs. 
It was now Maria’s turn to speak words of comfort, and 
remind her of her son, the Beggar captain, who would 
soon enter Leyden. 

On the sixth of September the burgomaster’s wife 
was returning home from an early walk. Autumn mists 
darkened the air, and the sea-breeze drove a fine, driz- 
zling spray through the streets. The dripping trees had 
long since been robbed of their leaves, not by wind and 
storm, but by children and adults, who had carried the 
caterpillars’ food to their kitchens as precious vegetables. 

At the Schagensteg Maria saw Adrian, and overtook 
him. The boy was sauntering idly along, counting aloud. 
The burgomaster’s wife called to him, and asked why 
he was not at school and what he was doing there. 

“I’m counting,” was the reply. “Now there are 
nine.” 

“ Nine?” 

“ I’ve met nine dead bodies so far; the rector sent 
us home. Master Dirks is dead, and there were only 
thirteen of us to-day. There are some people bringing 
another one.” 

Maria drew her kerchief tighter and walked on. At 
her left hand stood a tall, narrow house, in which lived a 
cobbler, a jovial man, over whose door were two in- 
scriptions. One ran as follows: 

“ Here are shoes for sale, 

Round above and flat below ; 

If David’s foot they will not fit, 

Goliath’s sure they’ll suit, I know.’* 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 325 

The other was: 

“ When through the desert roved the Jews, 

Their shoes for forty years they wore, 

Were the same custom now in use, 

’Prentice would ne'er seek cobbler’s door.” 

On the ridge of the lofty house was the stork’s nest, 
now empty. The red-billed guests did not usually set 
out on their journey to the south so early, and some 
were still in Leyden, standing on the roofs as if lost in 
thought. What could have become of the cobbler’s be- 
loved lodgers? At noon the day before, their host, who 
in March usually fastened the luck-bringing nest firmly 
with his own hands, had stolen up to the roof, and with 
his cross-bow shot first the little wife and then the hus- 
band. It was a hard task, and his wife sat weeping in 
the kitchen while the evil deed was done, but whoever 
is tormented by the fierce pangs of hunger and sees his 
dear ones dying of want, doesn’t think of old affection 
and future good fortune, but seeks deliverance at the 
present time. 

The storks had been sacrificed too late, for the cob- 
bler’s son, his growing apprentice, had closed his eyes 
the night before for his eternal sleep. Loud lamenta- 
tions reached Maria’s ear from the open door of the 
shop, and Adrian said: “Jacob is dead, and Mabel is 
very sick. This morning their father cursed me on 
father’s account, saying it was his fault that everything 
was going to destruction. Will there be no bread again 
to-day, mother ? Barbara has some biscuit, and I feel so 
sick. I can’t swallow the everlasting meal any longer.” 

“ Perhaps there will be a slice. We must save the 
baked food, child.” 

In the entry of her house Maria found a man-servant, 


326 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


clad in black. He had come to announce the death of 
Commissioner Dietrich Van Bronkhorst. The plague 
had ended the strong man’s life on the evening of the 
day before, Sunday. 

Maria already knew of this heavy loss, which threw 
the whole responsibility of everything, that now hap- 
pened, upon her husband’s shoulders. She had also 
learned that a letter had been deceived from Valdez, in 
which he had pledged his word of honor as a nobleman, 
to spare the city, if it would surrender itself to the king’s 
“mercy,” and especially to grant Burgomaster Van der 
Werff,. Herr Van der Does, and the other supporters of 
the rebellion, free passage through the Spanish lines. 
The Castilians would retire and Leyden should be gar- 
risoned only by a few German troops. He invited Van 
der Werff and Herr von Nordwyk to come to Leyder- 
dorp as ambassadors, and in any case, even if the nego- 
tiations failed, agreed to send them home uninjured 
under a safe escort. Maria knew that her husband had 
appointed that day for a great assembly of the council, 
the magistrates, and all the principal men in the city, as 
well as the captains of the city-guard — but not a word 
of all this had reached her ears from Peter. She had 
heard the news from Frau Van Hout and the wives of 
other citizens. 

During the last few days a great change had taken 
place in her husband. He went out and returned with 
a pallid, gloomy face. Taciturn and wasting away with 
anxiety, he withdrew from the members of his family 
even when at home, repelling his wife curtly and impa- 
tiently when, yielding to the impulse of her heart, she 
approached him with encouraging words. Night brought 
him no sleep, and he left his couch before morning 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


3 2 7 


dawned, to pace restlessly to and fro, or gaze at Bessie, 
who to him alone still tried to show recognition by a 
faint smile. 

When Maria returned home, she instantly went to 
the child and found Doctor Bontius with her. The 
physician shook his head at her appearance, and said the 
delicate little creature’s life would soon be over. Her 
stomach had been injured during the first months of 
want ; now it refused to do its office, and to hope for 
recovery would be folly. 

“ She must live, she must not die !” cried Maria, 
frantic with grief and yet full of hope, like a true mother, 
who cannot grasp the thought that she is condemned 
to lose her child, even when the little heart is already 
ceasing to beat and the bright eyes are growing dim and 
closing. “ Bessie, Bessie, look at me ! Bessie, take 
this nice milk. Only a few drops ! Bessie, Bessie, you 
must not die.” 

Peter had entered the room unobserved and heard 
the last words. Holding his breath, he gazed down at 
his darling, his broad shoulders shook, and in a stifled, 
faltering voice he asked the physician : “ Must she 
die ?” 

“ Yes, old friend ; I think so ! Hold up your head ! 
You have much still left you. All five of Van Loo’s 
children have died of the plague.” 

Peter shuddered, and without taking any notice of 
Maria, passed from the room with drooping head. 

Bontius followed him into his study, laid his hand 
on his arm, and said : 

“ Our little remnant of life is made bitter to us, 
Peter. Barbara says a corpse was laid before your door 
early this morning.” 


3 2 8 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


“ Yes. When I went out, the livid face offered me a 
morning greeting. It was a young person. All whom 
death mows down, the people lay to my charge. 
Wherever one looks — corpses ! Whatever one hears — 
curses ! Have I authority over so many lives ? Day 
and night nothing but sorrow and death before my 
eyes; — and yet, yet, yet — oh God! save me from 
madness ! ” 

Peter clasped both hands over his brow ; but Bontius 
found no word of comfort, and merely exclaimed : 

“ And I, and I ? My wife and child ill with a fever, 
day and night on my feet, not to cure, but to see people 
die. What has been learned by hard study becomes 
childish folly in these days, and yet the poor creatures 
utter a sigh of hope when I feel their pulses. But this 
can’t go on, this can’t go on. Day before yesterday 
seventy, yesterdry eighty-six deaths, and among them 
two of my colleagues.” 

“ And no prospect of improvement ?” 

“ To-morrow the ninety will become a hundred' — the 
one hundred will become two, three, four, five, until at 
last one individual will be left, for whom there will be 
no grave-digger.” 

“ The pest-houses are closed, and we still have cattle 
and horses.” 

“ But the pestilence creeps through the joints, and 
since the last loaf of bread and the last malt-cake have 
been divided, and there is nothing for the people to eat 
except meat, meat, and nothing else — one tiny piece for 
the whole day — disease is piled on disease in forms 
utterly unprecedented, of which no book speaks, for 
* which no remedy has yet been discovered. This draw- 
ing water with a bottomless pitcher is beginning to be 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE, 


3 2 9 


too much for me. My brain is no stronger than yours. 
Farewell until to-morrow.” 

“ To-day, to-day ! You are coming to the meeting 
at the town-hall ?” 

“Certainly not! Do what you can justify; I shall 
practise my profession, which now means the same 
thing as saying : ‘ I shall continue to close eyes and 

hold coroner’s inquests.’ If things go on so, there will 
soon be an end to practice.” 

“ Once for all : if you were in my place, you would 
treat with Valdez ?” 

“ In your place ? I am not you\ I am a physician, 
one who has nothing to do except to take the field 
against suffering and death. You, since Bronkhorst’s 
death, are the providence of the city. Supply a bit of 
bread, if only as large as my hand, in addition to the 
meat, or — I love my native land and liberty as well as 
any one — or — ” 

“ Or?” 

“ Or — leave Death to reap his harvest, you are no 
physician.” 

Bontius bade his friend farewell and left him, but 
Peter thrust his hand through his hair and stood gazing 
out of the window, until Barbara entered, laid hisj 
official costume on a chair and asked with feigned care- 
lessness : 

“ May I give Adrain some of the last biscuit ? Meat 
is repulsive to him. He’s lying on the bed, writhing in 
pain.” 

Peter turned pale, and said in a hollow tone : 

“ Give it to him and call the doctor.” • 

“ Maria and Bontius are already with him.” 

The burgomaster changed his clothing, feeling a 
44 


33 ° 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


thrill of fierce indignation against every article he put on. 
To-day the superb costume was as hateful to him as the 
office, which gave him the right to wear it, and which, 
until a few weeks ago, he had occupied with a joyous 
sense of confidence in himself. 

Before leaving the house, he sought Adrian. The 
boy was lying in Barbara’s room, complaining of vio- 
lent pains, and asking if he must die too. 

Peter shook his head, but Maria kissed him, ex- 
claiming : 

“ No, certainly not.” 

The burgomaster’s time was limited. His wife stop- 
ped him in the entry, but he hurried down-stairs without 
hearing what she called after him. 

The young wife returned to Adrian’s bedside, think- 
ing anxiously of the speedy death of many comrades of 
the dear boy, whose damp hand rested in hers. She 
thought of Bessie, followed Peter in imagination to the 
town-hall, and heard his powerful voice contending for 
resistance to the last man and the last pound of meat ; 
nay, she could place herself by his side, for she knew 
what was to come : To stand fast, stand fast for liberty, 
and if God so willed, die a martyr’s death for it like 
Jacoba, Leonhard, and Peter’s noble father. 

One anxious hour followed another. 

When Adrian began to feel better, she went to Bes- 
sie, who pale and inanimate, seemed to be gently fading 
away, and only now and then raised her little finger to 
play with her dry lips. 

Oh, the pretty, withering human flower ! How 
'closely the little girl had grown into her heart, how im- 
possible it seemed to give her up ! With tearful eyes, 
she pressed her forehead on her clasped hands, which 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. * 33 1 

rested on the head-board of the little bed, and fervently 
implored God to spare and save this child. Again and 
again she repeated the prayer, but when Bessie’s dim 
eyes no longer met hers and her hands fell into her lap, 
she could not help thinking of Peter, the assembly, the 
fate of the city, and the words: “Leyden saved, Hol- 
land saved ! Leyden lost, all is lost !” 

So the hours passed until the gloomy day wore 
away into twilight, and twilight was followed by even- 
ing. Trautchen brought in the lamp, and at last Peter’s 
step was heard on the stairs. 

It must be he, and yet it was not, for he never came 
up with such slow and dragging feet. 

Then the study door opened. 

It was he ! 

What could have happened, what had the citizens 
determined? 

With an anxious heart, she told Trautchen to stay 
with the child, and then went to her husband. 

Peter sat at the writing-table in full official uniform, 
with his hat still on his head. His face lay buried on 
his folded arms, beside the sconce. 

He saw nothing, heard nothing, and when she at 
last called him, started, sprang up and flung his hat 
violently on the table. His hair was dishevelled, his 
glance restless, and in the faint light of the glimmering 
candles his cheeks looked deadly pale. 

“ What do you want ?” he asked curtly, in a harsh 
voice; but for a time Maria made no reply, fear para- 
lyzed her tongue. 

At last she found words, and deep anxiety was ap- 
parent in her question : 

“ What has happened ?” 


33 2 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


“ The beginning of the end,” he answered in a hol- 
low tone. 

“ They have out-voted you ?” cried the young wife. 
“ Baersdorp and the other cowards want to negotiate ?” 

Peter drew himself up to his full height, and ex- 
claimed in a loud, threatening tone : 

“ Guard your tongue! He who remains steadfast un- 
til his children die and corpses bar the way in front of 
his own house, he who bears the responsibility of a 
thousand deaths, endures curses and imprecations 
through long weeks, and has vainly hoped for deliver- 
ance during more than a third of a year— he who, wher- 
ever he looks, sees nothing save unprecedented, con- 
stantly increasing misery and then no longer repels the 
saving hand of the foe — ” 

“ Is a coward, a traitor, who breaks the sacred oath 
he has sworn.” 

“ Maria,” cried Peter angrily, approaching with a 
threatening gesture. 

She drew her slender figure up to its full height and 
with quickened breath awaited him, pointing her finger 
at him, as she exclaimed with a sharp tone perceptible 
through the slight tremor in her voice : 

“ You, you have voted with the Baersdorps, you , 
Peter Van der Werff! You have done this thing, you, 
the friend of the Prince, the shield and providence of 
this brave city, you , the man who received the oaths of 
the citizens, the martyr’s son, the servant of liberty — ” 

“No more !” he interrupted, trembling with shame 
and rage. “ Do you know what it is to bear the guilt 
of this most terrible suffering before God and men ?” 

“Yes, yes, thrice yes; it is laying one’s heart on the 
rack, to save Holland and liberty. That is what it 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


333 


means! Oh, God, my God! You are lost! You intend 
to negotiate with Valdez!” 

“ And suppose I do ?” asked the burgomaster, with 
an angry gesture. 

Maria looked him sternly in the eye, and exclaimed 
in a loud, resolute tone : 

“ Then it will be my turn to say : Go to Delft ; we 
need different men here.” 

The burgomaster turned pale and bent his eyes on 
the floor, while she fearlessly confronted him with a 
steady glance. 

The light fell full upon her glowing face, and when 
Peter again raised his eyes, it seemed as if the same 
Maria stood before him, who as a bride had vowed to 
share trouble and peril with him, remain steadfast in the 
struggle for liberty to the end; he felt that his “child” 
Maria had grown to his own height and above him, 
recognized for the first time in the proud woman before 
him his companion in conflict, his high-hearted helper 
in distress and danger. An overmastering yearning, 
mightier than any emotion ever experienced before, 
surged through his soul, impelled him towards her, and 
found utterance in the words : 

“ Maria, Maria, my wife, my guardian angel ! We 
have written to Valdez, but there is still time, nothing 
binds me yet, and with you, with you I will stand firm 
to the end." 

Then, in the midst of these days of woe, she threw 
herself on his breast, crying aloud in the abundance of 
this new, unexpected, unutterable happiness : 

“With you, one with you — forever, unto death, in 
conflict and in love ! ” 


334 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 

Peter felt animated with new life. A fresh store of 
courage and enthusiasm filled his breast, for he constantly 
received a new supply from the stout-hearted woman by 
his side. 

Under the pressure of the terrible responsibility he 
endured, and urged by his fellow-magistrates, he had 
consented, at the meeting of the council, to write to 
Valdez and ask him to give free passage to embassadors, 
who were to entreat the estates and the Prince of Orange 
to release the tortured city from her oath. 

Valdez made every effort to induce the burgomaster 
to enter into farther negotiations, but the latter remained 
firm, and no petition for release from the sacred duty of 
resistance left the city. The two Van der Does, Van 
Hout, Junker von Warmond, and other resolute men, 
who had already, in the great assembly, denounced any 
intercourse with the enemy, now valiantly supported 
him against his fellow-magistrates and the council, that 
with the exception of seven of its members, persistently 
and vehemently urged the commencement of negotia- 
tions. 

Adrian rapidly recovered, but Doctor Bontius’s pre- 
diction was terribly fulfilled, for famine and pestilence 
vied with each other in horrible fury, and destroyed 
almost half of all the inhabitants of the flourishing city. 
Intense was the gloom, dark the sky, yet even amidst 
the cruel woe there was many an hour in which bright 
sunshine illumined souls, and hope unfurled her green 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


335 


banner. The citizens of Leyden rose from their 
couches more joyously, than a bride roused by the 
singing of her companions on her wedding-day, when 
on the morning of September eleventh loud and long- 
continued cannonading was heard from the distance, 
and the sky became suffused with a crimson glow. The 
villages southwest of the city were burning. Every 
house, every barn that sunk into ashes, burying the 
property of honest men, was a bonfire to the despairing 
citizens. 

The Beggars were approaching ! 

Yonder, where the cannon thundered and the hori- 
zon glowed, lay the Land-scheiding, the bulwark which 
for centuries had guarded the plains surrounding Ley- 
den from the assaults of the waves, and now barred the 
way of the fleet bringing assistance. 

“ Fall, protecting walls, rise, tempest, swallow thy 
prey, raging sea, destroy the property of the husband- 
man, ruin our fields and meadows, but drown the foe or 
drive him hence.” So sang Janus Dousa, so rang a voice 
in Peter’s soul, so prayed Maria, and with her thousands 
of men and women. 

But the glow in the horizon died away, the firing 
ceased. A second day elapsed, a third and fourth, but 
no messenger arrived, no Beggar ship appeared, and the 
sea seemed to lie calm ; but another terrible power in- 
creased, moving with mysterious, stealthy, irresistible 
might; Death, with his pale companions, Despair and 
Famine. 

The dead were borne secretly to their graves under 
cover of the darkness of night, to save their scanty ra- 
tion for the survivors, in the division of food. The angel 
of death flew from house to house, touched pretty litth 


33 ^ 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


Bessie’s heart, and kissed her closed eyes while she 
slumbered in the quiet night. 

The faint-hearted and the Spanish sympathizers 
raised their heads and assembled in bands, one of which 
forced a passage into the council-chamber and demanded 
bread. But not a crumb remained, and the magistrates 
had nothing more to distribute except a small portion of 
cow and horse-flesh, and boiled and salted hides. 

During this period of the sorest distress, Van der 
Werff was passing down the “ broad street.” He did 
not notice that a throng of desperate men and women 
were pursuing him with threats; but as he turned to 
enter Van Hout’s house, suddenly found himself sur- 
rounded. A pallid woman, with her dying child in her 
arms, threw herself before him, held out the expiring 
infant, and cried in hollow tones : “ Let this be enough, 
let this be enough — see here, see this; it is the third. 
Let this be enough ! ” 

“ Enough, enough ! Bread, bread ! Give us bread ! * 
was shrieked and shouted around him, and threatening 
weapons and stones were raised ; but a carpenter, whom 
he knew, and who had hitherto faithfully upheld the 
good cause, advanced saying in measured accents, in his 
deep voice: “This can go on no longer. We have 
patiently borne hunger and distress in fighting against 
the Spaniards and for our Bible, but to struggle against 
certain death is madness.” 

Peter, pale and agitated, gazed at the mother, the 
child, the sturdy workman and the threatening, shriek- 
ing mob. The common distress, which afflicted them 
and so many starving people, oppressed his soul with a 
thousand-fold greater power. He would fain have 
irawn them all to his heart, as brothers in misfortune, 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


337 


companions of a future, worthier existence. With deep 
emotion, he looked from one to the other, then pressed 
his hand upon his breast and called to the crowd, which 
thronged around him : 

“ Here I stand. I have sworn to faithfully endure 
to the end ; and you did so with me. I will not break 
my oath, but I can die. If my life will serve you, here 
I am ! I have no bread, but here, here is my body. 
Take it, lay hands on me, tear me to pieces. Here I 
stand, here I stand. I will keep my oath.” 

The carpenter bent his head, and said in a hollow 
tone : “ Come, people, let God’s will be done ; we 
have sworn.” 

The burgomaster quietly entered his friend’s house. 
Frau Van Hout had seen and heard all this, and on the 
very same day told the story to Maria, her eyes spark- 
ling brightly as she exclaimed : “ Never did I see any 

man so noble as he was in that hour ! It is well for us, 
that he rules within these walls. Never will our children 
and children’s children forget this deed.” 

They have treasured it in their memories, and during 
the night succeeding the day on which the burgomaster 
acted so manly a part, a letter arrived from the Prince, 
full of joyous and encouraging news. The noble man 
had recovered, and was striving with all his power to 
rescue brave Leyden. The Beggars had cut the Land- 
scheiding, their vessels were pressing onward — help was 
approaching, and the faithful citizen who brought the 
letter, had seen with his own eyes the fleet bringing 
relief and the champions of freedom, glowing with 
martial ardor. The two Van der Does, by the same 
letter, were appointed the Prince’s commissioners in 
place of the late Herr Van Bronkhorst. Van der Werff 


338 the burgomaster’s wife. 

no longer stood alone, and when the next morning 
“Father William’s” letter was read aloud and the mes- 
senger’s news spread abroad, the courage and confidence 
of the tortured citizens rose like withering grass after a 
refreshing rain. 

But they were still condemned to long weeks of 
anxiety and suffering. 

During the last days of September they were forced 
to slaughter the cows hitherto spared for the infants and 
young mothers, and then, then ? 

Help was close at hand, for the sky often reddened, 
and the air was shaken by the roar of distant cannon ; 
but the east wind continued to prevail, driving back the 
water let in upon the land, and the vessels needed a 
rising flood to approach the city. 

Not one of all the messengers, who had been sent 
out, returned; there was nothing certain, save the cruelly 
increasing unendurable suffering. Even Barbara had 
succumbed, and complained of weakness and loathing 
of the ordinary food. 

Maria thought of the roast-pigeon, which had 
agreed with Bessie so well, and went to the musician, to 
ask if he could sacrifice another of his pets for her sis- 
ter-in-law. 

Wilhelm’s mother received the burgomaster’s wife. 
The old lady was sitting wearily in an arm-chair; she 
could still walk, but amid her anxiety and distress a 
strange twitching had affected her hands. When Maria 
made her request, she shook her head, saying: “Ask 
him yourself. He’s obliged to keep the little creatures 
shut up, for whenever they appear, the poor starving 
people shoot at them. There are only three left. The 
messengers took the others, and they haven’t returned. 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


339 


Thank God for it; the little food he still has, will do 
more good in dishes, than in their crops. Would you 
believe it ? A fortnight ago he paid fifty florins out of 
his savings for half a sack of peas, and Heaven knows 
where he found them. Ulrich, Ulrich ! Take Frau Van 
der Werff up to Wilhelm. I’d willingly spare you the 
climb, but he’s watching for the carrier-pigeons that 
have been sent out, and won’t even come down to his 
meals. To be sure, they would hardly be worth the 
trouble !” 

It was a clear, sunny day. Wilhelm was standing 
in his look-out, gazing over the green, watery plain, that 
lay out-spread below him, towards the south. Behind 
him sat Andreas, the fencing-master’s fatherless boy, 
writing notes, but his attention was not fixed on his 
work ; for as soon as he had finished a line he too gazed 
towards the horizon, watching for the pigeon his teacher 
expected. He did not look particularly emaciated, for 
many a grain of the doves’ food had been secretly added 
to his scanty ration of meat. 

Wilhelm showed that he felt both surprised and 
honored by Frau Van der Werff’s visit, and even prom- 
ised to grant her request, though it was evident that the 
“saying yes” was by no means easy for him. 

The young wife went out on the balcony with him, 
and he showed her in the south, where usually nothing 
but a green plain met the eye, a wide expanse over 
which a light mist was hovering. The noon sun seemed 
to steep the white vapor with light, and lure it upward 
by its ardent rays. This was the water streaming 
through the broken dyke, and the black oblong specks 
moving along its edges were the Spanish troops and 
herds of cattle, that had retreated before the advancing 


340 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


flood from the outer fortifications, villages and hamlets. 
The Land-scheiding itself was not visible, but the Beg- 
gars had already passed it. If the fleet succeeded in 
reaching the Zoetermere Lake and from thence. — 

Wilhelm suddenly interrupted his explanation, for 
Andreas had suddenly started up, upsetting his stool, 
and exclaimed: 

“ It’s coming ! The dove ! Roland, my fore man, 
there it comes !” 

For the first time Wilhelm heard the boy’s lips ut- 
ter his father’s exclamation. Some great emotion must 
have stirred his heart, and in truth he was not mistaken; 
the speck piercing the air, which his keen eye had dis- 
covered, was no longer a mere spot, but an oblong 
something — a bird, the pigeon ! 

Wilhelm seized the flag on the balcony, and waved 
it as joyously as ever conqueror unfurled his banner 
after a hard-won fight. The dove came nearer — 
alighted, slipped into the cote, and a few minutes after 
the musician appeared with a tiny letter. 

“ To the magistrates !” cried Wilhelm. “ Take it to 
your husband at once. Oh ! dear lady, dear lady, finish 
what the dove has begun. Thank God! thank God! 
they are already at North- Aa. This will save the poor 
people from despair! And now one thing more! You 
shall have the roasted bird, but take this grain too ; a 
barley -porridge is the best medicine for Barbara’s con- 
dition ; I’ve tried it !” 

When evening came, and the musician had told his 
parents the joyful news, he ordered the blue dove with 
the white breast to be caught. “ Kill it outside the 
house,” said he, “ I can’t bear to see it.” 

Andreas soon came back with the beheaded pigeon. 


THE feURGOMASTER'S WIFE. 


341 


His lips were bloody, Wilhelm knew from what, yet he 
did not reprove the hungry boy, but merely said : 

“ Fie, you pole-cat 1” 

Early the next morning a second dove returned. 
The letters the winged messengers had brought were 
read aloud from the windows of the town -hall, and the 
courage of the populace, pressed to the extremest limits 
of endurance, flickered up anew and helped them bear 
their misery. One of the letters were addressed to the 
magistrates, the other to Janus Dousa ; they sounded 
confident and hopeful, and the Prince, the faithful shield 
of liberty, the friend and guide of the people, had re- 
covered from his sickness and visited the vessels and 
troops intended for the relief of Leyden. Rescue was 
so near, but the north-east wind would not change, and 
the water did not rise. Great numbers of citizens, sol- 
diers, magistrates and women stood on the citadel and 
other elevated places, gazing into the distance. 

A thousand hands were clasped in fervent prayer, 
and the eyes of all were turned in feverish expectation 
and eager yearning towards the south, but the boundary 
line of the waves did not move; and the sun, as if in 
mockery, burst cheerily through the mists of the autumn 
morning, imparted a pleasant warmth to the keen air, 
and in the evening sank towards the west in the 
midst of radiant light, diffusing its golden rays far 
and wide. The cloudless blue sky arched piti- 
lessly over the city, and at night glittered with 
thousands of twinkling stars. Early on the morning of 
the twenty-ninth the mists grew denser, the grass re- 
mained dry, the fogs lifted, the cool air changed to a 
sultry atmosphere, the grey clouds piled in masses on 
each other, and grew black and threatening. A light 


342 


THE BURGOMASTERS WIFE. 


breeze rose, stirring the leafless branches of the trees, 
then a sudden gust of wind swept over the heads of the 
throngs watching the distant horizon. A second and 
third followed, then a howling tempest roared and hissed 
without cessation through the city, wrenching tiles from 
the roofs, twisting the fruit-trees in the gardens and the 
young elms and lindens in many a street, tearing away 
the flags the boys had fastened on the walls in defiance 
of the Spaniards, lashing the still waters of the city moat 
and quiet canals, and— the Lord does not abandon His 
own — and the vanes turned, the storm came from the 
north-west. No one saw the result, but the sailors 
shouted the tidings, and each individual caught up the 
words and bore them exultantly on — the hurricane drove 
the sea into the mouth of the Meuse, forcing back the 
waves of the river by its fierce assault, driving them 
over its banks through the gaps opened in the dykes, 
and the gates of the sluices, and bearing forward on 
their towering crests the vessels bringing deliverance. 

Roar, roar, thou storm, stream, stream, rushing rain, 
rage, waves, and destroy the meadows, swallow' up 
houses and villages ! Thousands and thousands of 
people on the walls and towers of Leyden hail your 
approach, behold in you the terrible armies of the 
avenging God, exult and shout a joyous welcome ! 

For two successive days the burgomaster, Maria and 
Adrian, the Van der Does and Van Houts stood with 
brief intervals of rest among the throng on the citadel or 
the tower at the Cow- Gate ; even Barbara, far more 
strengthened by hope than by the barley-porridge or the 
lean carrier-pigeon, would not stay at home, but dragged 
herself to the musician’s look-out, for every one wanted 
to see the rising water, the earth softening, the moisture 


THE BURGOMASTER^ WIFE. 


343 


creeping between the blades of grass, then spreading 
into pools and ponds, until at last there was a wide 
expanse of water,, on which bubbles rose, burst under 
the descending rain, and formed ever- widening circles. 
Every one wanted to watch the Spaniards, hurrying 
hither and thither like sheep pursued by a wolf. Every 
one wanted to hear the thunder of the Beggars’ cannon, 
the rattle of their arquebuses and muskets ; men and 
women thought the tempest that threatened to sweep 
them away, pleasanter than the softest breeze, and the 
pouring rain, which drenched them, preferable to spring 
dew-drops mirroring the sunshine. 

Behind the strong fort of Lammen, defended by 
several hundred Spanish soldiers, and the Castle of 
Cronenstein, a keen eye could distinguish the Beggars’ 
vessels. 

During Thursday and Friday Wilhelm watched in 
vain for a dove, but on Saturday his best flier returned, 
bringing a letter from Admiral Boisot, who called upon 
the armed forces of the city to sally out on Friday and 
attack Lammen. 

The storm had blown the pigeon away. It had 
reached the city too late, but on Saturday evening Janus 
Dousa and Captain Van der Laen were actively en- 
gaged, summoning every one capable of bearing arms 
to appear early Sunday morning. Poor, pale, emaciated 
troops were those who obeyed the leaders’ call, but not 
a man was absent, and each stood ready to give his life 
for the deliverance of the city and his family. 

The tempest had moderated, the firing had ceased, 
and the night was dark and sultry. No eyes wished to 
sleep, and those whom slumber overpowered for a short 
time, were startled and terrified by strange, mysterious 


344 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


noises. Wilhelm sat in his look-out, gazing towards the 
south and listening intently. Sometimes a light gust of 
wind whistled around the lofty house, sometimes a 
shout, a scream, or the blast of a trumpet echoed 
through the stillness of the night ; then a crashing noise, 
as if an earthquake had shaken part of the city to its 
foundations, arose near the Cow-Gate. Not a star was 
visible in the sky, but bright spots, like will-o’-the-wisps, 
moved through the dense gloom in regular order near 
Lammen. It was a horrible, anxious night. 

Early next morning the citizens saw that a part of 
the city- wall near the Cow- Gate had fallen, and then 
unexampled rejoicing arose at the breach, no longer 
dangerous; exultant cries echoed through every street 
and alley, drawing from the houses men and women, 
grey-beards and children, the sick and the well, one 
after another thronging to the Cow-Gate, where the 
Beggars’ fleet was seen approaching. The city-carpetrter, 
Thomassohn, and other men, tore out of the water the 
posts by which the Spaniards had attempted to bar the 
vessels’ advance, then the first ship, followed by a 
second and third, arrived at the walls. Stern, bearded 
men, with fierce, scarred, weather-beaten faces, whose 
cheeks for years had been touched by no salt moisture, 
save the sea-spray, smiled kindly at the citizens, flung 
them one loaf of bread after another, and many other 
good things of which they had long been deprived, 
weeping and sobbing with emotion like children, while 
the poor people eat and eat, unable to utter a word of 
thanks. Then the leaders came, Admiral Boisot em- 
braced the Van der Does and Burgomaster Van der 
Werff, the Beggar captain Van Duijkenburg was 
clasped in the arms of his mother, Barbara, and many 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


345 


a Leyden man hugged a liberator, on whom his 
eyes now rested for the first time. Many, many tears 
fell, thousands of hearts overflowed, and the Sunday 
bells, sounding so much clearer and gayer than usual, 
summoned rescuers and rescued to the churches to 
pray. The spacious sanctuary was too small for the 
worshippers, and when the pastor, Corneliussohn, who 
filled the place of the good Verstroot, now ill from 
caring for so many sufferers, called upon the congrega- 
tion to give thanks, his exhortation had long since been 
anticipated; from the first notes of the organ,, the 
thousands who poured into the church had been filled 
with the same eager longing, to utter thanks, thanks, 
fervent thanks. 

In the Grey Sisters* chapel Father Damianus also 
thanked the Lord, and with him Nicolas Van Wibisma 
and other Catholics, who loved their native land and 
liberty. 

After church Adrian, holding a piece of bread in one 
hand and his shoes in the other, waded at the head of 
his school-mates through the higher meadows to Ley- 
derdorp, to see the Spaniards’ deserted camp. There 
stood the superb tent of General Valdez, in which, over 
the bed, hung a map of the Rhine country, drawn by 
the Netherlander Beeldsnijder to injure his own nation. 
The boys looked at it, and a Beggar, who had formerly 
been in a writing-school and now looked like a sea-bear, 
said : 

“ Look here, my lads. There is the Land-scheiding. 
We first pierced that, but more was to be done. The 
green path had many obstacles, and here at the third 
dyke — they call it the Front- way — there were hard nuts 
to crack, and farther progress was impossible. We now 
45 


346 THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 

returned, made a wide circuit across the Segwaert- 
way, and through this canal here, where there was hard 
fighting, to North- Aa. The Zoetemieer Lake now lay 
behind us, but the water became too shallow and we 
could get no farther. Have you seen the great Ark of 
Delft ? It’s a huge vessel, moved by wheels, by which 
the water is thrust aside. You’ll be delighted with 
it. At last the Lord gave us the storm and the 
spring-tide. Then the vessels had the right depth of 
water. There was warm work again at the Kirk-way, 
but the day before yesterday we reached Lammen. 
Many a brave man has fallen on both sides, but at Lam- 
men every one expected the worst struggle to take 
place. We were going to attack it early this morning, 
but when day dawned everything was unnaturally quiet 
in the den, and moreover, a strange stillness prevailed. 
Then we thought: Leyden has surrendered; starva- 
tion conquered her. But it was nothing of the sort ! 
You are people of the right stamp, and soon after a lad 
about as large as one of you, came to our vessel and 
told us he had seen a long procession of lights move out 
of the fort during the night and march away. At first 
we wouldn’t believe him, but the boy was right. The 
water had grown too hot for the crabs, and the lights the 
lad saw were the Spaniards’ lunts. Look, children, there 
is Lammen — ” 

Adrian had gone close to the map with his compan- 
ions and now interrupted the Beggar by laughing 
loudly. 

“ What is it, curly-head ?” asked the latter. 

“Look, look!” cried the boy, “the great General 
Valdez has immortalized himself here, and there is his 
name too. Listen, listen! The rector would hang a 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


347 


placard with the word donkey round his neck, for he has 
written : ‘ Castelli parvi / Vale civitas , valete castelli 

parvi ; relicti estis propter aquam et non per vim inimi- 
corum /’ Oh ! the donkey ‘ Castelli parvi / ’ ” 

“ What does it mean ?” asked the Beggar. 

“Farewell, Leyden, farewell, ye little ‘ Castelli ye 
are abandoned on account of the waves, and not of the 
power of the enemy. i Parvi Castelli / ’ I must tell 
mother that !” 

On Monday, William of Orange entered Leyden, 
and went to Herr von Montfort’s house. The people 
received their Father William with joy, and the unwea- 
ried champion of liberty, in the midst of the exultation 
and rejoicing that surrounded him, labored for the future 
prosperity of the city. At a later period he rewarded 
the faithful endurance of the people with a peerless me- 
morial : the University of Leyden. This awakened and 
kept alive in the busy city and the country bleeding for 
years in severe conflicts, that lofty aspiration and effort, 
which is its own reward, and places eternal welfare far 
above mere temporal prosperity. The tree, whose seed 
was planted amid the deepest misery, conflict and 
calamity, has borne the noblest fruits for humanity, still 
bears them, and if it is the will of God will continue to 
bear them for centuries. 


On the twenty-sixth of July, 1581, seven years after 
the rescue of Leyden, Holland and Zealand, whose 
political independence had already been established for 
six years, proclaimed themselves at the Hague free from 
Spain. Hitherto. William of Orange had ruled as King 


34 § 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


Philip’s “ stadtholder,” and even the war against the 
monarch had been carried on in his name. Nay, the 
document establishing the University, a paper, which 
with all the earnestness that dictated it, deserves to be 
called an unsurpassed masterpiece of the subtlest 
political irony, purported to issue from King Philip’s 
mouth, and it sounds amusing enough to read in this 
paper, that the gloomy dunce in the Escurial, after 
mature deliberation with his dear and faithful cousin, 
William of Orange, has determined to found a free- 
school and university, from motives, which could not 
fail to seem abominable to the King. 

On the twenty -fourth of July this game ceased, 
allegiance to Philip was renounced, and the Prince 
assumed sovereign authority. 

Three days after, these joyful events were celebrated 
by a splendid banquet at Herr Van der Werff’s house. 

The windows of the dining-room were thrown wide 
open, and the fresh breeze of the summer night fanned 
the brows of the guests, who had assembled around the 
burgomaster’s table. They were the most intimate 
friends of the family : Janus Dousa, Van Hout, the 
learned Doctor Grotius of Delft, who to Maria’s delight 
had been invited to Leyden as a professor, and this 
very year filled the office of President of the new 
University, the learned tavern-keeper Aquanus, Doctor 
Bontius, now professor of medicine at the University, 
and many others. 

The musician Wilhelm was also present, but no 
longer alone; beside him sat his beautiful, delicate wife, 
Anna d’Avila, with whom he had recently returned from 
Italy. He had borne for several years the name of Van 
Duivenbode (messenger-dove), which the city had be- 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 349 

stowed on him, together with a coat of arms bearing 
three blue doves on a silver field and two crossed 
keys. 

With the Prince’s consent the legacies bequeathed by 
old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten to her relatives and ser- 
vants, had been paid, and Wilhelm now occupied with 
his wife a beautiful new house, that did not lack a dove- 
cote, and where Maria, though her four children gave 
her little time, took part in many a madrigal. The musi- 
cian had much to say about Rome and his beautiful sis- 
ter-in-law Henrica, to Adrian, now a fine young man, 
who had graduated at the University and was soon to be 
admitted to the council. Belotti, after the death of the 
young girl’s father, who had seen and blessed Anna 
again, went to Italy with her, where she lived as superior 
of a secular institution, where music was cultivated with 
special devotion. 

Barbara did not appear among the guests. She had 
plenty to do in the kitchen. Her white caps were now 
plaited with almost coquettish skill and care, and the 
firm, contented manner in which she ruled Trautchen 
and the two under maid-servants, showed that every- 
thing was going on well in Peter’s house and business. It 
was worth while to do a great deal for the guests up- 
stairs. Junker von Warmond was among them, and had 
been given the seat of honor between Doctor Grotius 
and Janus Dousa, the first trustee of the University, for 
he had become a great nobleman and influential states- 
man, who found much difficulty in getting time to leave 
the Hague and attend the banquet with his young assis- 
tant, Nicolas Van Wibisma. He drank to Meister 
Aquanus as eagerly and gaily as ever, exclaiming : 

“To old times and our friend, Georg von Dornburg.” 


350 the burgomaster’s wife. 

“With all my heart,’’ replied the landlord. “ We 
haven’t heard of his bold deeds and expeditions for a 
long time.” 

“ Of course ! The fermenting wine is now clear. 
Dornburg is in the English service, and four weeks ago 
I met him as a member of her British Majesty’s navy in 
London. His squadron is now on the way to Venice. 
He still cherishes an affectionate memory of Leyden, 
and sends kind remembrances to you, but you would 
never recognize in the dignified commander and quiet, 
cheerful man, our favorite in former days. How often 
his enthusiastic temperament carried him far beyond us 
all, and how it would make the heart ache to see him 
brooding mournfully over his secret grief.” 

“ I met the Junker in Delft/’ said Doctor Grotius. 
“ Such enthusiastic natures easily soar too high and 
then get a fall, but when they yoke themselves to the 
chariot of work and duty, their strength moves vast 
burdens, and with cheerful superiority conquers the 
hardest obstacles.” 

Meantime Adrian, at a sign from his father, had 
risen and filled the glasses with the best wine. The 
“hurrah,” led by the Burgomaster, was given to the 
Prince, and Janus Dousa followed it by a toast to the 
independence and liberty of their native land. 

Van Hout devoted a glass to the memory of the 
days of trouble, and the city’s marvellous deliverance. 

All joined in the toast, and after the cheers had died 
away, Aquanus said : 

“ Who would not gladly recall the exquisite Sunday 
of October third; but when I think of the misery that 
preceded it, my heart contracts, even at the present 
day.” 


THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE. 


35 1 

At these words Peter clasped Maria’s hand, pressed 
it tenderly, and whispered : 

“ And yet, on the saddest day of my life, I found my 
best treasure.” 

“ So did I ! ” she replied, gazing gratefully into his 
faithful eyes. 

\ 


( 2 ) 


THE END. 






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